


Gold Fish In A Blue Tank

by angel_snacc



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Androids, Background Poly, F/F, Father-Son Relationship, Gay, Gay Male Character, M/M, Polyamorous Character, Polyamorous Pack, Polyamory, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-29 21:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15737790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_snacc/pseuds/angel_snacc
Summary: "Are you a big fish in a small pond? Or a fish out of water? Cause either way, you're gold to me."Connor is trapped and Detroit is his tank. He lives in a world of blues and greys and crime scenes and anti-android hate. That is, until he meets a man who fishes him out.Wes has his own problems. As he navigates a post-revolution Detroit and the friendships and successes he is subject to, he swims directionless in a red sea. That is, until he meets an android who anchors him down.Forced into an investigation of android hate crimes, the two teach each other more about themselves and the world than a textbook ever could. They fall; hook, line and sinker.





	1. Worth The Laundry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Connor thinks things over.

Connor didn't care that his jacket was soaked through with rain. He paid no attention to the wet cotton of his shirt clinging to his skin or the puddle forming at his feet. The bliss of a smooth, steady rainfall was worth the laundry.

Empty and quiet except for the gentle patter of rain, the park provided a welcome escape from the outside world of crime scenes and case files. Recently Connor hadn't had much time for enjoying the rain; he wanted to make the most of it, at least for one more minute.

His touch sensitivity activated and his hands delved deep in his pockets, a wave of calm washed through his circuits. Every drop that burst against his face brought him further and further from the mess that was Detroit.

Connor yearned to swap places with the rain. He craned his neck upwards and straightened his back, his closed eyes facing the sky, trying to get as close as possible to the dark clouds looming above him. He distantly registered rising onto the tips of his toes.

 _A couple of inches closer,_ he thought to himself. _It's a start._

What a wonder it would be to climb among the clouds; to lie in the inky sky, precipitation on his eyelids, the moon over his shoulder. What a wonder it would be to be free.

 _Freedom will have to wait. Your minute's up._

Connor sighed and lowered his head, his momentary high rinsing away. Freedom for androids had been achieved, he knew that; he played his own part in that not eight months before. But with equal rights - with work, with legal protection, with a normal life - came responsibility. For Connor, the responsibility of simply existing felt suffocating.

 _Funny thing, an android who feels choked. No lungs to wreck._

Trudging footsteps dragged Connor back into the suburbs of the city; back to work, back to crime, back to stress levels above 30%.

 _God, I want to get away from this place. Away from political tension and pools of spilled thirium. Away from the anti-android hate crimes that pile up on my desk each day. Away from broken, plastic bodies and blue-stained shirts. Away from..._

Detroit. Away from Detroit.

Warm, artificial light poured from the streetlamps, bathing Connor in yellow raindrops as he walked through one of Detroit's poorer neighbourhoods. One of the last places to have the yellow streetlamps of the years before, yet to be replaced by the blue bulbs that dominated America's cities.

 _Proven to ease the humans' minds, proven to decrease crime rates, proven to stress me out._

Connor didn't argue with facts, but that didn't change the fact that the turquoise lights being "serene and calming" felt to him like bullshit. It was such an unnerving colour; glaring, harsh, cold.

 _Touch sensitivity deactivated,_ he decided with a shiver.

No. He'd had enough of blue. Enough of being branded with glowing triangles and armbands of sparkling cyan. What's so wrong with yellow? With amber? With red? With warmth?

 _I'm so damn sick of blue,_ he begged of the sky. _Give me something new._

*

"Merry fuckin' Christmas."

"It's June, Hank." Connor closed the door behind him and dripped onto the carpet as he toed off his shoes. It felt good to enter the warm lamplight of the living room.

The Lieutenant, sprawled across the couch with a chicken burger and soda, snorted loudly over the TV.

"Wouldn't think it, the weather we're gettin'," he grunted through a mouthful of food, gesturing at Connor's soaked uniform. "Twenty years ago the government were denyin' climate change, and look at us now. Christmas in June. Fuckin' bullshit."

"Its not Christmas, Hank; that's not how global warming works." Connor raised an eyebrow at his friend and peered at his high calorie, cholesterol riddled meal.

 _But not a beer bottle in sight. Well done, Anderson._

"Long day, huh?"

"You could say that," Hank snorted again and gestured to the file on the coffee table. "We got ourselves another one."

Connor dug the folder out from under the piles of food wrappers and soda cans, his metaphorical stomach in knots. The DPD's new division, the Android Protection Unit, was proving to be an interesting yet distressing challenge for him; he enjoyed the work, but with every new android death he was assigned to a part of his thirium pump regulator seemed to break, if only for a second.

"Argh! Connor, not when you're all wet, you prick," Hank groaned as the android sank down next to him on the couch. There was no real harshness to his voice and, despite his complaints, Hank shuffled to make room for his friend. "Christ, you're worse than Sumo."

Upon hearing his name, the hulking mass of fur Hank called a dog padded in from the kitchen, greeting Connor with a lolling tongue. Connor patted him absentmindedly as he scanned through the case file.

_Android homicide._

_Male CX100, registered as Oscar Freeman._

_Shot twice in the chest, leading to immediate shutdown behind The Wildes nightclub, central Detroit, at 03:47, 06/18/39._

"This morning?"

"That's the one," grumbled Hank, holding his burger above his head and out of Sumo's reach. "They know the fucker who shot him; idiot dumped the gun with his prints in a dumpster a few blocks West of the bar." He took a slurp of his drink and shoved Sumo with his slippered foot. " _Down,_ boy! They ain't found him yet though, we gotta interview some folks who knew him tomorrow."

"Of course we do." Connor felt his synthetic skin crawl. "Perfect."

It was Hank's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"You alright, kid?"

Connor sighed and dropped the file onto the table as he surveyed his choices.

 _Honesty? Sarcastic joke? Distance?_

He chose the first option and leant back into the bumpy cushions of the couch.

"I'm...not at peak performance. My stress levels have been above 20% since I left the office." He paused. Emotional expression was something he was yet to grow used to. "I feel...crowded."

"I could tell something was off." Hank claimed, wiping crumbs off his front. Connor furrowed his eyebrows.

"How? I haven't said or done anything out of the ordinary, as far as I can detect."

Hank chuckled.

"Your sarcasm and your stress levels go hand in hand, kid." He smiled knowingly. "Plus, your LED. It's been red since you walked in through the door. Don't take a genius to know that ain't a good sign."

Connor rolled his eyes. Of course. That damn LED. He could easily take it off if he wanted to.

 _But you don't want to,_ he reminded himself. _Make up your mind._

"Emotional navigation is still a relatively new experience for me," he explained. "I needed to clear my head."

"That why you took a walk?"

"Yes. I needed to think about the directives my program was supplying me."

"In Human, please, Connor." Connor sighed.

"I needed to think over some shit." He tried, attempting not to smirk. His partner let out a guffaw and fed Sumo the last of his burger.

"Wanna talk about the shit?" He asked. Connor looked down at his lap. _Yes,_ he thought, _I do._ But forming the words was difficult, as if there was some sort of program or firewall preventing him from being honest. _Hank has his own issues. You've worked so hard to help him overcome them. He doesn't need any added stress. Don't be selfi-_

"Kid." Hank interrupted. "I don't wanna be soppy or shit, but I wouldn't offer to talk if I wasn't alright with it," he nudged the android. "Talk to me, you asshole."

Connor moaned and covered his face with his hand. He took a deep, unneeded breath out of habit and offered his friend a weak smile.

"There's just a whole lot going on right now. I'm sick of seeing those shut down androids all the time," he leaned back and stroked circles into Sumo's fluffy ears with his thumbs. "There's a part of me that's demanding to get away from this place, for a while, which is just stressing me out more because that doesn't make _sense_ as a want."

"It makes perfect sense," Hank shook his finger at Connor. "You, young man, need a vacation."

Connor almost laughed.

"An android on vacation?"

"Why not? You plastic fuckers are working, eating, gettin' hitched - vacations are for anyone. And you've never left Detroit."

Connor considered it. A week or so out of the city, huh? Just him and Hank and Sumo, somewhere calm, with no responsibilities to worry about.

 _It doesn't sound...awful._

"Where would we even go?" He argued.

"Anywhere you damn want," Hank downed the rest of his soda and started collecting the cans and wrappers on the table. "Think about it and we'll go over summer. Can't say it'll solve all your issues, but it'll make em easier to deal with."

Connor smiled as Hank set about tidying the room, making quick work of the rubbish.

 _Anywhere I want, eh?_

Where would he even want to go? He hadn't seen much of the world outside the city. He had knowledge of basic geography, of course, and a quick search through the data he had access to provided him with locations, maps, statistics, photos. He scanned images of warm, tropical beaches and clear oceans. And -

 _An audio clip?_

Of waves, the website stated. He played it to himself.

_Oh._

_Wow._

_This..._

He leaned back onto the couch as if being consumed by the cushions. He closed his eyes and listened. Every strong, steady crash that echoed in his sensors lulled him into a state of peace. The gentle patter of rain was nothing next to the rhythm of the sea.

 _Here. I want to go here._

"Connor, whilst I'm glad you're relaxing or some shit, you gotta go change," Hank's voice brought him out and back into reality. Connor peeled an eye open and paused the audio clip. "I don't want a damp couch."

"I think the vacation idea might be a good plan." Connor forced himself up onto his feet and ran a hand through his hair.

"Yeah?" Hank threw an arm over the android. "I could use one too." He patted Connor's chest and grinned. "Somewhere quiet. And warm."

"I'm going to recharge now, Hank," Connor made his way down the hallway to his room. "But, yes. Somewhere warm."

Hank gave him a middle-fingered salute as Connor returned his grin, rolled his eyes and shut the door behind him.

*

Connor's room housed basic furniture; a double bed with a navy duvet that was never used, an organised writing desk, a small yet growing collection of possessions. The android hadn't been alive long enough to warrant a lifetime of items, leaving him with empty shelves and plain walls to come back to after the revolution. Connor was grateful he had somewhere to return to in the first place; back then, he was alone in the world. No family, no friends, just the tense atmosphere of Jericho and the strangers who inhabited it.

And Hank.

An embrace and an explanation were exchanged that day in the snow, the air thick with the stench of chicken and beer. Hank's strong arms circled unrelentingly around Connor's torso. An offer of a night of security.

 _"Get in, you asshole,"_ Hank had bellowed as he stuffed himself into his car. _"We're gettin' outta here. Freezing my ass off."_

_"And going where?"_ Connor had asked. He remembered his friend's chuckle.

 _"Home, you thick fuck."_

A night of security had tumbled into months, and Connor hadn't considered leaving. He was content with the unspoken arrangement he and the Lieutenant had formed.

 _Even if I do need a vacation,_ Connor thought to himself. _Just some time away._

He glanced up at the postcards blutacked onto the wall above his writing desk. Printed, snowy landscapes adorned with forests and lakes and _"Welcome to Canada!"_ emblazoned in bright, garish text. He appreciated the communication between him and Kara. Physical letters felt better both to send and to receive, and seeing the difference in Alice's handwriting as she slowly improved instilled in him a strange sense of pride. He smiled as he spied his favourite of the three; the waterfall sporting a primitive drawing of a moose in pink crayon from Alice, kisses from Kara in the form of three carefully written X's and Luther's signature smiley face. An urge of longing grasped at his wires.

 _Not Canada. Too cold. Snow._

Connor shuddered and looked away from the postcards. Despite deactivating his touch and temperature sensitivity, he felt a chill creep up his neck. He forced images of virtual snowstorms out of his head and unbuttoned his shirt.

His chest of drawers matched his closet in the fact that they were almost as empty as his room. He hadn't much need for changes of outfit; a simple blazer change was needed for his uniform and a few t-shirts and pairs of sweatpants for loungewear. The old Cyberlife jacket hung discarded behind the former. The only time laundry was necessary was when his uniform was dirtied with soda or ketchup by Hank.

 _Or rain or thirium._

Connor placed his wet clothing in his wash basket and briefly considered the possibility of venturing out into the world of style. At first, he didn't see the point of spending his newly earned paycheck on something as unnecessary and trivial as extra clothes when even the boxers Hank insisted on him purchasing were unneeded.

 _"I don't need clean pairs,"_ He had tried to explain. _"I am incapable of producing the necessary fl-"_

_"Argh, Connor, shush! I get it. Just...buy 'em, will you?"_

_"Sure."_

But recently, he had grown sick of the greys and blacks that his wardrobe consisted of. Maybe he'll ask Hank to take him somewhere he'd go next week.

 _He'd turn me into a hippy,_ Connor realised with a snort. He gazed fondly at the only photo he was yet to take - a dismal Hank Anderson perched on a bench in the very same park Connor had just visited, glaring in disbelief and horror at the newly snatched pizza slice in Sumo's criminal jaws. Despite the lens glare and Connor's fingertip protruding at the bottom of the frame, Hank had declared it a masterpiece.

 _"A magnificent, true-to-life snapshot of life with an asshole dog."_

Next to the photo lived some of Connor's favourite things - a pebble sporting a hand painted goldfish from Alice; an inkless yet perfectly polished fountain pen that had once belonged to Carl Manfred; a letter dripping in gratitude, sent from an android Connor had personally converted, and a book. Battered and torn, Hank had dug it out from beneath his bed. _The Penguin Collection of Romantic Verse._

Gingerly, Connor grasped the latter.

Rain drops were continuing to fall, beating the window like a drum. Connor gazed out at the world outside. A thick sheet of black, foamy clouds loomed overhead, lathering the horizon with rain and floods of deep blue darkness. Beams of gold cut down to the sidewalk from the streetlamps, the only things yet to be engulfed.

Connor drew the windows quickly.

His airways felt clogged, as if a thick imaginary substance was preventing him from dragging in the oxygen.

 _You don't have airways. You don't take in oxygen. You don't breathe, not really._

But Christ, he wanted to. The simulation of breath couldn't compare to what he imagined the real thing to be. What was he now? A fish out of water, gasping for air he didn't need?

 _What am I now? Drowning?_

Sitting. He was just sitting. Sitting on his bed, hands clutched around the poetry book and eyes forced shut. Connor relaxed the wires in his plastic joints and eased himself into a lying position, switching on the dim white lamp near his head. He lay still and straight on top of the duvet, clearing his head of blue and drowning.

With care, he eased open the front pages of the book and scanned the letters. He didn't even realise when he slipped into standby mode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please feel free to ask any questions or say whatever in the comments, I love chatting about stuff (; Gold Fish In A Blue Tank is also available on Wattpad, and if you wanna message me about anything my instagram is @angel.snacc!! xx


	2. The Damned 19th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a few lives are temporarily, permanently changed.

A good day is easy to ruin, but a bad day is near impossible to fix. Wesley had learnt this lesson the hard way several times in his life; pissing himself in his English Literature GCSE, throwing up on his first boyfriend on their third date after some dodgy seafood, accidentally hitting his elderly neighbour's cat with his car. All of these had branded this lesson into his brain for him never to forget; but none as firmly as the damned 19th.

He had woken to golden sun flooding through the curtains he had neglected to close. The storm of the night before had given way to a dewy morning, the scent of rain and damp pavement thick in the air. Wesley ignored the urge to groan and burrowed further into the thin cotton sheets, earning himself a peaceful moment of soft duvet and clean linen.

Wes lived alone. He liked it like that, usually. It wasn't that he was lonely; he had friends and the Freemen over all the time, and his work was the most sociable and communal job he'd had in his life. But his bright, airy, comfortably tiny flat was his own space.

 _Why bother with a flatmate who'd probably only complain about my decorating?_  He reasoned to himself, battling into a sitting position. Eyes bleary, he gazed at the various items crowding his room; vintage band posters, a fire orange tapestry, fairy lights and ties and scarves on hangers. Clothes overflowed from his wardrobe, impossible to cram in completely. Piles of books and DVDs dominated the shelves. Potted cacti and succulents were arranged messily on the windowsill.  _Mess, decorating; tamayto, tomahto._

Beyond the bedroom and through the hallway was the bathroom, which Wes dragged himself into.  _Fuck, I look a state._  The mirror above the sink depicted a skinny 24 year old who looked as if he had been stretched out by a torture rack -  _Kinky! -_ yet remained hopelessly short.

Wes eyed up his reflection, trying to find something to scrutinise. His thick dark brows he hadn't bothered to tame for years? His curved nose so many other Middle Eastern guys get rhinoplasty to "fix"? The small gap between his front teeth that used to be big enough to fit a quid between?

 _No. They're brilliant. I'm lucky as hell to have features like these,_ He reminded himself.  _Look at me being a unique little prick!_

This morning routine of hating his flaws so much that there was nothing left to do but admire them had worked strangely well for Wes.  _My hair definitely still needs fixing, though._

As he struggled a brush through the tangles of his thick, waist length hair (a style that was briefly popular in the early 2030's and he had refused to change), he contemplated the day ahead of him.  _Get to work at 4, check up on Jack._ He grimaced at the thought.  _He's not a bad kid,_  he reasoned.  _Don't demonise him._

Wes had always been good with conflict. As the oldest brother, he was the one burdened with resolving his siblings' squabbles; judge, jury and executioner. But that didn't mean that it didn't take an emotional toll. Arguments that were immanent and unavoidable tired him, brought him to the end of his tether. And with Jack, there wasn't much he could do. Making a few inappropriate comments and generally adding to the tension and drama of The Wildes wasn't worth the backlash.  _But I don't wanna just...wait until he snaps and does something awful that's worthy of being reprimanded._ Wes sighed.  _But what's a gay bar without a little drama?_

Wes put down his brush and surveyed his work with a pout. His hair fell behind him in a black, silky sheet, smooth and unknotted.

"Handsome devil!" He muttered to his reflection, rewarding himself with a cheesy wink.

The shrill of an early 2000's rock ballad chirped from his bedroom, tinny and obnoxious. Wes rolled his eyes and ignored it, clomping down the stairs to avoid having to answer the call. Sylvia called him for the dumbest shit; last time it was to inform him that a raccoon had gotten into the dumpster behind The Wildes and bitten one of the customers, but rather than call an exterminator, she had named it.

 _"Mr Keatsy is just too cute! You'll love him!"_ She had claimed from the emergency room.

Wes forced the incident from his mind and arranged himself a breakfast of fruit and granola.  _Why in the willows would she call this bloody early?_ he wondered as he squirted honey into his bowl, smirking at the squelches sounding from the bottle.  _Fuck, I can't take another fight with Jack._   _When's that twat gonna learn? Freemen fight together, not with each other._  He frowned as he crunched his cereal, his older brother instincts kicking in as he remembered the last fight.  _Poor Oscar, Christ. Good thing androids can't feel pain, that kid took a right pounding._

Wes shuddered as he remembered his friend's face, smashed and leaking drips of blue blood, a furious yet fearful fire in his eyes. An urge of protectiveness rushed through him. He longed to grasp the android in his arms and keep his little brother cradled away from the angry red world they lived in. Away from Jack.

 _Stop that!_ He scolded himself, curling his fingers into a fist around his spoon.  _Stop it. Oscar can look after himself. Jack won't do anything serious._   _Calm. The fuck. Down._

Deep breath in, deep breath out, a bit of Queen on the stereo and he was gold. Wesley ignored the distant ringtone from his room as it repeated once again, and let himself enjoy the music. Flailing around track after track, miming the lyrics to the anthems of his childhood into his spoon like a makeshift karaoke microphone. He was a Champion. He was a Killer Queen. He was a Bohemian. He was a Fat Bottomed Girl!

Wes shoved away the nagging ringtone and performed ballad after ballad of goofy seventies rock to his audience of kitchenware and condiments. The sickly feeling that scorched his stomach when he remembered his friend's terrible appearance were neglected by Freddie's breathtaking and godlike vocals. Queen boxed Wes into a great fucking morning.

But a great day is easy to ruin.

The cheesy (and by now, quite foreboding) rock ballad shrieked once more from his phone as Wes was deliberating outfits. He glared at the phone as it buzzed on his bedside table, the back of his neck prickling.  _Would Sylvia bother me this much if it wasn't important?_  He worried on the fourth ring, gnawing his lip.

 _Sylvia has a very different idea of what counts as "important" than most people,_ he reasoned, dismissing the thought.  _Relax._

An avalanche of clothing spilled from his wardrobe like lava from a volcano. A flood of blacks, reds, blacks, oranges, yellows, blacks, a few greys but mostly blacks.  _Christ, I need to get myself a summer wardrobe._ The sweltering heat blasting in from the window was making him sweat even in his boxers - the thought of being swaddled in thick, black cloth in this weather was suffocating.

Wes ignored his phone when it rang again.

After some searching, he stumbled upon a baggy pair of scarlet trousers, the material thin and flowy. He rolled them above his ankles as if about to go paddling. Comfortable, canvas sandals and a white tank top completed his makeshift outfit.  _Not my usual look._  He reminded himself to go shopping soon.

The arrogant rock ballad teased him as he bundled his hair into a messy ponytail. He added a pair of round shades to make John Lennon proud and a coat of crimson lipstick, cutting across his face like a bright and bloody scar.  _Perfect._

 _"Friday I'm in love..."_ warned Sylvia's ringtone, the meaningless lyrics grating at his ears.

"Fine!" He snapped. "I'm coming! But only cause I'm sick of that  _damn_ song-" he stomped over to the damned device and finally, fatefully, hit the answer button.

"Hey-"

 _"Jesus fucking Christ, Wes! Why the shit didn't you answer?!"_ His friend's voice croaked, frantic.

"Gosh, Sylvie, I didn't know it was important-"

_"Well shit its important! It's messed up, that's what it is! I don't know what to fucking do - I knew going away was a bad idea, we never should have left Oscar alone with that psycho-"_

Wes' heart dropped to his arse.

"Wh-what are you talking about?" His voice raised about an octave. "Has something happened at The Wildes? Is Oscar ok?!"

Sylvia let out a strangled gurgling sound. Wes heard her heaving.

"Calm down, mate, come on, you're alright," he soothed. "Deep breaths, ok? In...and out. In, and out."

Her ragged breath steadied. The gurgling ceased.

"Now Christ, tell me what you're on about."

 _"I...I can't,"_ she trembled audibly.  _"It's so damn fucked up. We shoulda been there, Wes. This never woulda happened-"_

"What never would have happened?!" It was all he could do to stop himself from snapping. His hands grasped the duvet as he ached for answers.

 _"They - the Freemen, yesterday, as they were opening up,"_ she began.  _"In the dumpster behind the bar. They found - they, they found..."_

"Found  _what_?" Wes rubbed his temples, his eyes squeezed shut. "Please, mate, don't keep me on edge like this. Found what?"

_"Oscar. They found Oscar."_

Oh.

Wes' breathing halted. His eyes opened, staring forward at nothing. A million thoughts swirled around his empty head. If his guts twisted into any more knots they'd snap.

"What?" Was all he could manage.

 _"They found him lying in the garbage, with t-t-two b-bullet holes in his ch-che-chest..."_ She dragged in a breath.  _"Jack shot him, Wes. Jack -"_

Sylvia's voice fizzled into static when it reached Wes' ears, not making it to his brain. A bright, hot fire drowned it out instead. A fire that left his body empty except for the ashes of his organs. His blood boiled and steamed. Red hot pin pricks scurried up and down his back. Yet he remained still. He let the fire consume him. He wanted to burn.

 _"Wes, Wes, listen to me,"_ Sylvia begged.  _"It's important th-that you l-listen to me. You gotta."_

"I-I'm listening."

_"He ain't dead, Wes."_

Oh?

"He - what?"

 _"I mean, he s-sorta is, for now at least,"_ she tried to explain.  _"They reckon they can fix 'im c-cause only his heart thingy and a few of those bio-doodads were d-damaged, and the Cyberlife mechanics can replace those - they can reactivate him-"_

"They can?" Wes winced at the weakness of his voice, how lost it made him sound.  _And I was, for a moment. One of my Freemen. One of my friends. My brother, my little Oscar. Gone._ A cool wave of relief mixed with ice cold, tingling fear rushed through him.

 _"They reckon so,"_ Sylvia assured.  _"Miles called me a few hours ago, said that a few of the Freemen went to the Android Repair Centre with the b-body. They're gonna call when he wakes."_

 _When he wakes._ The words echoed triumphantly around his skull.

"That's - that's good," he circled his thumb around the coin in his hand, using the movement to ground himself. "But - Christ, he's not gonna be ok, is he?"

_"Androids are resilient, he should be fine-"_

"Physically, maybe!" He snapped. "But mentally, they vary, like us, right? He's gonna remember, he's gonna freak out. I don't know if he can handle something as fucked as being  _shot in the fucking chest -_ "

 _"You gotta give the kid some credit, Wesley,"_ his friend argued, suddenly stronger and assured than he felt himself. _"I know, he's been through hell. They all have. And I get that you wanna protect them from going through hell again. But he's a strong guy."_

"But...he died," Wes uttered, the words stale in his mouth. "You can't just up and  _die_ and be ok with it. What if he's traumatised?!"

He heard his friend sigh, choosing her next words with care.

 _"You baby him. You know you do."_ Her voice was stern.  _"Just this once, trust that he can handle this. Cause you can't protect him this time. You just gotta support him. And let him take it."_

Wes was sure there were a million reasons she was wrong, but he couldn't think of a single one. Only excuses.

"I know." He accepted after a few silent seconds. "I just... _fuck,_ this is insane."

 _"I know,"_ Sylvia returned.  _"It's some real batshit."_

Despite himself, Wes let out an awkward laugh.

"What about Jack?"

 _"The police know it's him but have no clue where the bastard went,"_ replied Sylvia.  _"I wish I could say I'm surprised, but...I'm kinda not?"_

"I get you," Wes hugged his knees. "Not like I was expecting it, but...it makes sense. Jack hates the lot of them, but Oscar most. And he's been real antsy about it lately. They had another fight last week."

_"I'm sorry, Wes - I shoulda believed you when you said he was bad news. If we had kicked him out when you said -"_

"Then he would've pulled some stunt like this anyway. It's not your fault, Syl. It's no one's fault but his." He paused. "And next time I see him, I'm gonna rip his nuts off and hang them above the bar like an ugly ass trophy."

Sylvia snorted and let out a series of breathy chuckles like a deflating tyre. It felt good to make his friend laugh and alleviate some of the stress that bore down on them both.

 _"You gotta get to the club,"_ she murmured.  _"They need you right now. Be strong for them, ok? For them, and for you."_

"Ok," he agreed. "I promise I'll try my best."

_"That's my boy. I gotta call Miles, but call me later; I wanna stay updated."_

"Sure thing." He paused. "I love you, Sylvie."

_"I love you, too. Stay safe out there."_

_No promises,_ Wes thought to himself as he pressed the end call button.

*

The Wildes was, by day, a queer-centric tearoom/bookstore that served as a community hub and meeting place for many members of Detroit's lgbtq+ population. By night, it was a popular queer nightclub, famous for the various themed events it hosted. In the months since the peaceful android revolt, it served as a safe and inclusive space for deviants to use. The two communities became quickly allied, with The Wildes at the heart of the collective friendship.

At least, that was the information Connor had so far received from the commingled source of his databases and the humans and androids he had managed to get a quick word from. The building was full of people, yet he had been told that they were technically closed for the day. It seemed that the floods of customers were friends of the club, and exceptions to the closed sign.  _A few hundred exceptions,_  he thought to himself, wary of the crowd.

He and Hank were stuffed next to the bar, behind which a tall android with blue hair was serving hot drinks and pastries to the bustling café-goers. The community were split into ever evolving groups, huddled around tables and deep in discussion. Some were fashioning a  _"Welcome Home Oscar!"_ banner out of a rainbow flag and paint; some were baking hurriedly in the kitchen; some were scurrying back and forth from group to group, checking on and informing the crowd of updates on the injured android. It was clear that the blue haired barista had had no problem with supplying the human customers with something a little stronger than coffee.

"Place lives up to its name," Hank commented through a mouth of croissant. "Certainly is pretty wild in 'ere."

"That's one word for it." Connor wasn't sure what he made of the place. Usually, throngs of people - especially loud, busy people in an enclosed room - unnerved him, and whilst he was irritated at how difficult it was proving to interview anyone about the suspect, the atmosphere of the place instilled in him a sense of... _excitement?_

"So many people, yet so little information on our suspect," Hank grumbled, wiping pastry flakes from his beard. "You'd think these people would  _want_ to help us catch the guy."

"The pair of us don't have the best reputation amongst the deviant community," Connor reasoned. "I wouldn't be surprised if one of our old perpetrators was in this very room."

"You ain't wrong," Hank shrugged, wiping pastry flakes from his beard. "You reckon they're, uh, scared of ya?"

"The thought has crossed my mind, yeah," Connor admitted with a sigh. "As in that's all I've been worried about since we walked through the door."

"Kid, don't blame yourself for that. They're just...nervous, about what you used to be," the Lieutenant tried. "Not of what you are now."

Connor nodded, running his coin along his knuckles. A strange feeling flowed throughout him, as if a pool of ice cold water was slowly rising from the pit of his torso. He remembered the first android he tried to speak to; jittery, stuttering, unable to look Connor in the eye. He had quickly made an excuse to end the conversation and scuttled back into the throng.

"I understand what you're trying to say, Hank. And I appreciate it."

"But...?"

"But..." Connor tore his eyes away from the people filling the room and looked up at his friend. "But I just wish I could show them who I am, now. That I'm not that machine anymore. I'm here to help this time round."

Hank let out what could either be a groan, a sigh or a caffeine boosted burp as he rubbed his brow and sipped his coffee. He seemed to deliberate on his words with care.

"They'll realise eventually, kid," he finally assured. "With time, they'll remember and acknowledge all the shit you're doing to help 'em out. Don't worry too much."

Connor smiled at his friend, more out of appreciation that reassurance. Hank's words instilled in him a sense of hope; the fact that he, of all humans, had overcome his hatred of Connor's kind and gotten to a place where he'd put this amount of effort into supporting Connor made him realise that, soon enough, he'll find more people willing to do the same.

He didn't tell Hank any of this. He couldn't find the words.

"Christ, what's all that about?" The older man exclaimed before Connor could change the subject. Connor swiftly moved his gaze to where Hank was gesturing. The front doors had swung open and a swarm of androids and humans alike had quickly clustered around them, all clamouring to be heard. The person they were so desperate to grasp the attention of was blocked from Connor's view.

"What's all the hullabaloo?"

"Some kinda celebrity?" Hank theorised.

Connor shrugged, keeping his eyes on the crowd, and was about to answer before he was interrupted.

"It's just one of the owners," crowed the blue haired barista, examining her nails. "The whole club's been uneasy. They just gotta talk to 'em, get it outta their systems."

Connor furrowed his brows at this.  _That's still a strange reaction to a club owner,_ he pondered.  _Although, this is a pretty strange club._

The crowd began to shuffle further from the entrance, indicating that the owner was making their way towards the bar.  _Towards us,_ Connor realised.

That's when Connor saw him.

Through a gap in the throng, he caught a glance of the man behind the excitement. The world around him paused. Connor's eyes were fixed on the stranger, who his scans revealed to be Wesley Freeman, co-owner of The Wildes, 24 years old. But it was Connor's eyes which informed him of the fact that this man was uncomfortably, undeniably entrancing. Everything from the thick, inky ponytail to the smooth yet perfectly blemished skin the colour of Hank's morning coffee drew him in. The flashes of red on his lips and his trousers clutched at his pump regulator. He was suddenly hyper aware of the thirium rushing through his biocompartments, lulling him like the sound of a rainfall. Wesley Freeman looked like warmth. Like fire, with black hair like smoke. He looked...hot?

_Shit._

"She's the owner?" Hank's voice shook him by the shoulders and forced him into reality.

"He," Connor corrected, turning to his friend, his head somehow heavy and light at the same time. "He's Wesley Freeman.  _Co-_ owner."

"Shit, he's damn pretty for a fella. Might offer him a drink anyway."

Before Connor could explain to Hank the implications of buying someone a drink at their own bar, a deep voice cut over the clamours of the club.

"Alright,  _alright!_ Listen, you miserable lot," Connor's head whipped back around. Wesley, of course, was the owner of the voice; he had clambered onto the bar counter on which he now stood, hands on hips like a stern mother. His voice was lower than expected, echoing with a stubborn authority around the suddenly silent room.

"Ok. Yeah. I know. Today's been crazy; our friend is out cold, and will be for a few hours yet. Our other friend shot him.  _I know._  Going over and over about what we already know and freaking out isn't gonna stop this from being more fucked up than  _Ex Machina_ on steroids. What's done is done."

Wesley seemed to pause not for time to think, but for effect, Connor realised.  _Gosh, he's got a British accent,_ he also realised.

"I know that this puts us in a bit of a messy situation," Wesley continued. "Oscar's our friend, but so was Jack. What he did yesterday was, by no means, acceptable. I assure you, he is not welcome here. Not after what he did to our brother." Another brief pause. This time, Connor noticed, to take a readying breath. "But we cannot let ourselves be consumed by hate. That's not how we do things here. Not at The Wildes. Not us. Please, focus not on the hate and anger and fear I know we all have inside of us right now, but on recovery. Help one another. Support each other. By the end of the day, Oscar will come home, and we're all gonna be here to celebrate with him."

The club cheered and whooped, obviously moved by their friend's words. Connor found himself clapping lightly along with the others.

"Now get that banner up! Come on!" Wesley instructed, a cathartic grin pulling at his lips. "And tidy this place up - you're like pigs, the lot of you."

With a few bouts of laughter, the crowd dispersed, their energy transformed. The uneasiness had morphed into determination and solidarity. Wesley leapt down from the counter with the grace of someone who seemed to make a habit out of delivering speeches on bar counters.

"Too early for vodka?" He teased the barista with a somewhat earnest desperation. He returned her raised eyebrows with a smirk. "A nice, piping cuppa, then."

"One Breakfast tea coming right up."

Connor avoided looking at the owner, which proved difficult. Not only because the distance between them was barely more than a few metres, but for reasons that left Connor confused and uneasy. He turned to his friend for solace.

"He might be our best chance to collect information on the suspect," he reasoned, his voice hushed. "Should we-? I think it would be beneficial to the, uh, the case."

"Christ, Connor, you feelin' alright?"

"I am functioning at a high performance level and I feel positively dandy-"

" _Dandy?!_ Since when have you said  _that-"_

"My dandiness levels are at 100%, in fact!" Connor insisted, barely pausing for a fake breath.

"Tell that to the yellow thing on your head." Hank tapped his friend's temple before he could bat him away. The android glared back, abashed. "Sure you don't want me to talk to him?"

"I can handle this fine, Lieutenant. I was built for this."

"Aright, alright, chill your bolts," Hank help up his hands in surrender. "Go interview the shit outta him. But don't be too full on. Treat it like a normal conversation."

Unsure of a proper retort, Connor gave his friend an awkward, defensive half-nod and braced himself.  _Chill your bolts!_  He repeated to himself.

With a turn of his heel, Connor straightened his tie and his posture and strode towards Wesley, who was perched on a bar stool with his hands gripped tightly around the mug before him. As Connor drew closer, he noticed the furrow in the young man's eyebrows and the downturn on his lips. The way he gazed into his tea as if wishing he could hide within it revealed to Connor about this man than a scan ever could.

Then, Connor realised that he had reached his destination. He was standing by Wesley, eyes fixed upon him, forming a greeting in his mind.

Wesley looked up.

The words caught in Connor's throat, cruelly unmoving. Warm and inviting, pair of dark eyes met his own. Connor felt sucked in. It took him a moment to realise that his mouth was hanging open in preparation of a "Hello" that never came. He could sense annoyance in Wesley's expression. A hot rush sizzled within his chest, and he thanked Ra9 that androids were unable to blush.

_Shit, Connor, say something -_

Wesley raised an expectant eyebrow.

_Say something, quick! Anything!_

"I like your nose," he blurted.

_Maybe...not anything._

A distant snort from behind him informed Connor that Hank had been listening in. He swore under his breath.

The man in front of him blinked, amused. Connor opened his mouth to apologise but was quickly cut off.

"I like your hair," Wesley replied. "And your arse, to be perfectly honest."

_So much for normal conversation._

"Thank you," Connor ignored the heat spreading to his head or the increase in his pulse. A sudden, subtle warmth bloomed in his chest; he felt weirdly proud of the compliments. "I-I'm Connor from the Android Protection Unit of the DPD. I was hoping to ask you a few questions?"

"Ah," Wesley smirked and sipped his tea, surveying Connor with a searching glance. "So it is you."

Connor tilted his head.

"You know who I am?"

Wesley nodded, emptying a sachet of sugar into his mug. He gestured to the androids milling around the room, occasionally casting curious glances towards the pair.

"You haven't noticed this lot's reaction?" He asked. "They all know who you are. Connor RK800; famous Deviant Hunter."

If Connor had a heart, it would have sank. Instead his eyes dipped to his shoes.  _I knew it._

"I did notice, yes. I don't blame anyone for being...unnerved by presence."

"That's not quite how I'd put it," Wesley raised an eyebrow, his accent adding a clean lilt to his words. "Nervous, maybe. It's not everyday you run into one of your heroes."

Connor's fake breath hitched. His pump skipped a beat. Wesley's words rang around his head, the buzzing confusion bolder than a  _"Does not compute"_  warning.  _Surely not._

"H-heroes, huh?" He forced a chuckle. "I don't think-"

"You don't think what? That you're not a hero?" Wesley leant his cheek on his hand and offered Connor a warm, curious smile. "Maybe not to everyone, sure. But to these people..." He gazed fondly around the café. "To us, you most certainly are."

Connor was unsure how to process this information, let alone respond. He pulled out a stool next to Wesley and sank onto it, placing his hands in his lap. As he became aware of the half-hidden stares directed at him from the café-goers his neck began to prickle.

"I..." He started. Despite his program urging him to keep the conversation professional, he longed to ask Wesley the approximately 346 questions whizzing past his directives. "I don't quite understand."

"Mate," Wesley pressed a soft hand on Connor's wrist. The android ignored the tingles he felt from the other man's touch. "They haven't forgotten what you did at the Cyberlife tower. Some of the people you freed that night are here right now," Connor turned at this, scanning the club, and locked eyes with an android across the room. He recognised the model. Wesley was right. Connor and the android shared an awkward smile before he span back to Wesley, bashfully eager for him to continue. "You're a liberator. You and Markus and the other leaders of Jericho, you're heroes. And then you go and join the Android Protection Unit? God, there was a lot of excitement here that night. Way too many celebratory drinks in your honour."

"So..." Connor stumbled on his words. A fizzing ball of elation fluttered in his stomach. "So, they're not...scared of me anymore?"  _God, you sound like a kid._

"Not in the slightest," Wesley let out a tinkling laugh that just added to Connor's butterflies. "Who you were before doesn't matter here. You don't have to be Connor RK800, Deviant Hunter anymore. We choose our own names here."

Connor thought for a moment. The conversation had taken a turn he hadn't been expecting, but he appeared to have little objection.  _Choosing my own name..._

"Connor Anderson..." He started.

"...Deviant Protector." Wesley finished.

"Connor Anderson, Deviant Protector." The words fizzed on his tongue like sherbet. He couldn't help but grin as he looked over at Hank, who offered him a proud thumbs-up. Connor hadn't felt this relieved or wanted since Hank had pulled him into his arms so long ago, that day in the snow.

"It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?" Wesley's smile was enchanting, like the smirks Connor had read about in his Romantic verse book. Wesley's smile made Connor stutter and stumble and say things he would never had said before. Wesley's smile, and the words that came with it, had transformed Connor's outlook and experience in a matter of minutes.

Connor decided that he liked Wesley's smile even more than he liked his nose.

"It does," he murmured, smiling at the coin in his hands. There was a long yet comfortable pause in which Connor processed the conversation. Hank ordered a second cup of coffee, the androids of The Wildes continued to glance at Connor, and Wesley sipped his tea.

_Connor Anderson, Cyberlife Liberator._

_Connor Anderson, Jericho Hero._

_Connor Anderson, Android Activist._

_Connor Anderson...Deviant Protector._

*

Wes had dated androids before. He'd dated a lot of people since he moved to America, but nothing had lasted. And since the revolution, the community surrounding him was quickly joined by new mechanical allies. He had the same experiences with his new deviant friends as he did with his human ones - a flirt here, a few dates there, making out and hooking up at parties. But nothing serious. At least, not romantically. Deviants became his friends, his family, his Freemen, his support network - he didn't feel in need of romantic fulfilment.

Connor didn't change that. Wes didn't  _need_  him, didn't  _need_ to flirt, didn't  _need_  to peek at his arse; but something about the android made Wes feel like he did.

There was a demureness to Connor. He wasn't there to get in Wes' undies, and Wes was sure that, even if he wanted to, Connor Anderson wouldn't know how to go about it.  _He must be new to this,_  Wes knew as he observed Connor's ticks. The avoidance of eye contact, the fumbling of the coin.  _No, not fumbling._  Wes watched as Connor ran the silver circle across his knuckles and pinged it from hand to hand. Perfectly calculated, each movement was, to Wes, a masterpiece.  _Or at least thoroughly impressive._

Wes took the moment of silence to admire Connor from the corner of his eye. He hadn't seen his model before, which just intrigued him more. His gaze ran along the strong cheekbones, the smooth skin, the sculpted jaw. Moles and freckles were scattered across his face and down his neck like stars. For a moment, Wes wondered how far they reached.

_Stop it. He's obviously unused to that sort of attention. Don't freak the poor guy out._

"So you had some questions?" He prompted, breaking the silence. Connor smiled politely and pocketed the coin.

"I do, yes." He answered. Wes noticed the change in his voice. When Connor had first approached him only a few minutes prior, he had sounded weak, unsure. Now he sounded determined. Confident in his objective.  _I did that!_ Wes thought to himself proudly.

"I'm guessing they're a little more intense than 'what's your favourite colour', huh?"

"Perhaps a little." Connor chuckled. "Although if it makes you feel more comfortable, I suppose we could always start with that."

Wes raised an eyebrow. He enjoyed the playful undertones he was picking up from Connor, and appreciated the man's effort to put Wes at ease.

"It's blue. A bright, light blue."

The falter in Connor's smile went unnoticed by Wes.

"Why?" The detective pressed, tilting his head.

"Christ, I don't know, I haven't really thought about it," Wes admitted. He turned on his stool to face the windows at the front of the room, giving him view of the turquoise summer sky outside. Golden light filled the café and swallows soared in the cyan. "It's...cooling. My life is so goddamn hectic most days - sometimes I just need to take a moment to look at the sky and relax. It's so endless. Infinite blue. Like a giant sea or something." He turned to Connor and offered him a wistful smile. "Blue anchors me."

Connor nodded as if he somehow made sense out of Wes' ramble.  _And maybe he did._

"That's fascinating," Connor said politely. "I like how you put that."

"Thanks." Wes turned back to the bar and sipped his tea. "How about yours? What's your favourite colour?"

"I'm not sure," Connor's brow furrowed. "I like...warm colours. Like yellow, for happiness. Orange is nice too. Red is...complicated. It's angry, but also loving. Its, uh...exciting."

_Watch how carefully he chooses his words. Watch as he thinks. This is an honest moment for him. He's letting you be a part of this._

"But if I had to pick, I think...gold."

"Gold?"

"Yes. Like the sun."

"Can't get much warmer than that."

Connor was surprising, Wes realised. It had been merely ten or so minutes since the conversation started, but Wes already knew more about the man beside him than the gossip or news articles could ever know. Wes felt honoured to be privy to the gentle vulnerability the android was displaying. Connor's words stayed in his head like a pleasantly catchy melody.

But what surprised Wes most about Connor was not his careful words or his perfect arse, nor was it the way in which a mandatory police interview had been replaced by an emotional pep talk and a connection over colours. No - it was the firm lesson he learnt on the damned 19th.

Connor taught him that day that, despite how easily a good day can be ruined, it is still undeniably possible for a bad day to be fixed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sup everyone, I really hoped you liked this chapter! Any feedback is appreciated. X


	3. The Freemen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Connor flirts and Hank gets a shock.

Pride swelled in Hank's chest as he watched Connor's confidence soar from across the room. Whatever that Freeman guy was saying to his young friend was causing the android to grin, and occasionally laugh. It felt good to see the kid that way.

But sitting alone and staring at his friend is something that can go from sweet to creepy real fast, and Hank didn't want to be over protective; and he certainly didn't want another damn coffee. He slid some change towards the barista with a nod and began to make his way towards the back entrance, casting one last glance towards Connor.

Hank opened the door to a blast of heat. The storm from the night before had given way to a sweltering July heatwave which made Hank sweat in his jacket. Black trash bags cushioned the sides of the yard, denied access to the taped off dumpster that had previously held Oscar Freeman. The heat boiled the trash, the smell pungent, adding to the already thick and polluted Detroit air. The yard buzzed with flies.

Hank stopped in his tracks, halfway through pulling a packet of cigarettes from his jacket. Standing a few feet in front of the dumpster was a short, fair man. Hank noticed the way in which the man glared at the dumpster as if it was his own coffin before the man noticed Hank.

"Sorry. I didn't know anyone else was gonna be out here." At the sound of Hank's voice the stranger whipped round his head, greeting Hank with shock, his eyes wide. He was an android, Hank noticed; no LED, but his left arm was clean from skin, exposing the white plastic beneath. A  _Knights Of The Black Death_ tank top and denim shorts gave the man an appearance of the teenagers of Hank's day - punk and messy and pretentious. Hank approved.

"N-no, its ok. Just caught me in a moment of thought is all," the android reassured. He turned back to face the dumpster, his hands in his pockets. Moving to stand next to him, Hank pulled out a cigarette.

"Can androids...?" He offered the packet, receiving an apologetic smile in response.

"No lungs, pal."

"Ah. Yeah." Hank lit his own, ignoring the awkwardness of the exchange. He eyed up the android, trying to figure him out. His features were distantly feminine, his face...familiar. He was sure he'd seen the model before, but couldn't seem to pin down where.

"If you're wondering, I was a Traci. Yeah, a girl one." The android's voice broke the silence, eyes still fixed on the dumpster, a slight smirk to his lips. Hank took a long draw from his cig, more confused than he had been before. The android raised an eyebrow, shooting Hank a glance. "You're at a queer club. Surely you expected to bump into a few trans people?"

"I guess I didn't realise androids could feel that way too," Hank admitted. "There are a lotta things humans have gotta realise about you lot. Myself included."

"I appreciate your honesty," the man held out his exposed hand, which felt firm and prosthetic when Hank shook it. "I'm Miles Freeman. Or the Transdroid, if you're pissed. Lieutenant Anderson, right?"

"Yeah, that's me," Hank raised an eyebrow, impressed at how well the android's face had transformed from the Tracis' seductive, womanly features into something handsome and chiseled. "I suppose you ain't unfamiliar with what I do."

"Not exactly," Miles' eyes followed the smoke spiralling into the air. "We often share updates on you and Detective Anderson, as well as Jericho. Makes us feel connected." He smirked. "If I'm honest, I'm a little star struck."

The smirk was a weak attempt at disguising the anger Hank had seen in Miles' face before. The older man took a long puff of his cig.

"The android who was found here, Oscar," Hank began, sensing the man tense beside him. "You have the same name. He some sort of brother?"

"Not quite," Miles' voice was softer. "More of a partner. The name has nothing to do with that."

Hank flicked the ash from the end of his cig, pausing.

"You and your boyfriend share Wesley's name, right?" He pressed eventually.

"Us, and about twenty odd other androids, and ten or so humans." Miles smiled, a flash of sincerity to it.

"Fuck. Big family." Hank raised an eyebrow. "What's the story with that?"

"Well. They call us the Freemen."

"Sounds culty," Hank joked. "Like some real Manson family shit."

"I assure you its not," the android said with a chuckle. "But it's family-like, yeah. After we were freed, a lot of us didn't already have human families who could accept us and make us part of them. Those who did often took the family name. Like you and Connor."

Hank nodded. He remembered the day he and Connor had gone to register Connor's new name.

 _"Are you sure about this?"_ The android had nervously questioned.  _"A last name isn't utterly necessary. I understand if this is too personal, Lieutenant."_

 _"It's Hank,"_ he'd replied, resting a hand on his friend's shoulder.  _"And yeah, this is personal. That's why I'm doing it. Why, are you not sure you wanna?"_

 _"N-no, I am,"_ Hank remembered the almost desperate tone to Connor's voice.  _"I'm sure._   _It's just a weird feeling."_

 _"I know, son."_ He had wrapped an arm around Connor's shoulders. The android had leaned into him as if needing the support.  _"But you and me, we're Andersons. This is a good thing."_

 _"I know. I think so too. I think this is a great thing,"_ grinned Connor Anderson.

"He was so excited when we went to register his name," Hank told Miles, fond and absentminded. "Family names are important."

"That's what Wes says," Miles returned Hank's smile. "He says family is something you choose. Tied by love rather than blood, red or blue."

Hank nodded. Miles' words - Wes'words - stuck in his head. The android continued.

"Not every android wanted a surname - some said it was a human concept they didn't wanna conform to. And good for them, I guess, but for a lot of us..." He paused. "We feel lost without one. We wanna belong to something for once in our goddamn lives."

Hank noticed the android's hands were balled into fists. He watched as they slowly relaxed as the man soothed himself.

"A lot of us formed groups. Families, big and small, who share a surname they chose themselves. That's sorta what we did here." He explained. A wistful calmness eased the tension from Miles' face as he explained. "Wes already had six or seven human friends who legally took his name. Kids from the gay community who were rejected from and treated so badly by their blood families they didn't want to be a part of it anymore. They were kind of like us - a bit lost, hating their names and relatives but unable to find new ones. And sure, Wes helped some form new and better relationships with their blood families, but some just couldn't. So he offered his own name. And they became his family."

"Definitely sounds like a cult," Hank laughed somewhat timidly, his head teeming with information. Miles' raised an eyebrow.

"It wasn't a big thing for Wes, not at the start. Just kind of helping out a few friends. Then we arrived," he grinned proudly. "There were tons of us, nameless and unwanted. One night Wes got drunk and decided to help us out - and sober Wes didn't change his mind. It was crazy. And exciting." His smile faltered. "Oscar and I were some of the first Freemen. I...he's very special to Wes. He was the first deviant he met." He shut his eyes. "J-Jack...the guy who shot Oscar. He gave Oscar to Wes and Sylvia, the other owner. Before the revolution, when we were still property."

"Jack bought Oscar? As a gift?" Hank asked, his police mind setting in.

"Yeah. His parents are kinda rich. They let him buy shit all the time. And he bought a lot of androids."

"Do you know why?"

"He..." Miles' faltered, his voice harsh and disgusted. "He liked the power he had over them. He liked to order them about and make them do pointless shit. I think...we think he used to beat them, but we never found any evidence."

Hank dropped his cigarette on the gravel ground and crushed it with his foot. His head was spinning, and not from the smoke.

"And he was allowed here?"

"He's Sylvia's cousin. He turned around and apologised after the revolution and the equal rights acts, and we all pretended we knew it wasn't fake. We put up with him because he didn't cause any trouble. Well, not at first."

Hank couldn't tell if the conversation was more painful or therapeutic for Miles - the man was hard to read. Part of him didn't want to press the issue, but another part shouted sternly that he was a goddamn cop, he didn't have much of a choice.

"I gotta ask you more about that Jack guy, kid," Hank said apologetically.

"I know," was his quiet reply. "Its OK. I get it." Miles stared glumly down at the ground, shuffling an empty beer can with the toe of his sneaker. He paused for a moment. "It'll help you find him, right? If I tell you what I know?"

Hank nodded, not wanting to make any promises.

"Jack...he hated Oscar. He hated all of us, I think, but he was real bitter towards Oscar. He singled him out. Targeted him. I guess, to Jack, Oscar wasn't supposed to be this way. He was supposed to be Wes' slave, not his brother." His plastic hand picked at the synthetic fingernails on his right. "It wasn't much at first - just snide comments now and then, you know. Nothing we haven't heard before," Hank felt a twinge of sympathy. He had firsthand experience of the kind of comments and glares some humans took upon themselves to deliver. Connor was no stranger to those. "But the comments got slowly more and more offensive. At that point Oscar started to stand up for himself - he's a strong person, but a bit thick. He gets defensive. Which I umderstand. He doesn't take anyone's shit. I...admire that."

"So do I," Hank said.

Miles smiled at him and continued. "Then, though, it started getting more serious. A few times, recently, it got physical. Oscar never started it, " he added quickly. "But there's only so many punches you can take before you gotta do something. But...it was always over quickly. Wes or Sylvia or someone would shut it down pretty fast. No one ever got hurt too bad. No one ever got..." he let out a sudden sob, and Hank realised there were tears in the android's eyes. He stood awkwardly, unsure of what to do. "Fuck, sorry, this is embarrassing -"

"Don't apologise, its all good," Hank offered, feeling useless. "I get it. Its fucked. You can cry. Don't worry."

Miles wiped the tears with the bottom of his shirt and took a few seconds to compose himself. When he spoke again his voice was steady and controlled. "I found him. Oscar. Here. It was me who saw him first - all crumpled and bleeding. His eyes were open, but he wasn't really looking. Jack hadn't bothered to be careful  with him - his limbs were all sprawled, you know, like a rag doll. And the blue blood..." he paused again. Took a glance at the dumpster. "I screamed. I actually climbed in with him. When the others came out I was sitting in the trash and tugging at him like some sort of mental raccoon. Then the police came, a bit later, and they made me go inside. I can't remember much else."

"And no sign of Jack?" Hank spoke softly. "No  note, or phone call?"

"Nothing. He doesn't usually do that sort of thing." Miles shrugged. "When they told me they found the gun with his prints, when I found out it was him, I...wasn't surprised. Just kinda...angry, you know? I wanted to rip his god damn head off. I still do. Don't hold me to that, though," he turned to Hank quickly. "I keep forgetting you're a cop."

The emotional out pour Miles was giving him was in no way necessary for the case. If anything, it was wasting time, and making Hank kind of uncomfortable. But before he was a cop, he was a man, and the conversation seemed to be helping Miles, and that's why Hank became a cop in the first place, wasn't it? To help people?

"Don't worry about it," he said lightly. "I'm used to that feeling."

Miles grinned appreciatively. "Wes and Sylvia didn't find out until today," he admitted guiltily. "I know they're the owners, and they should have known. And I should've told them sooner. Or let someone else. But I just couldn't," Hank tilted his head, as if asking why. "It wasn't even a case of not being able to. I managed to recover pretty OK once they told me Oscar would be alright. Still shaken, of course, but able to make a fucking phone call."

"Then why didn't you?"

"I couldn't get through to Sylvia. I tried, but she didn't answer until this morning. She's on holiday so I wasn't surprised," Miles ran his hand through his hair. "And Wes...he's a leader. I couldn't stand the thought of him telling me that everything's fine when its just  _not._ I guess I didn't want him messing with it all. But really, I didn't want to be jealous. Of him. And Oscar." He covered his face with his hands. Hank stepped closer, his hand hovering over the other man's back. "God, that sounds so awful. I feel bad about it. I know it wasn't my decision to make, but...I didn't want him to come round being upset about Oscar.  _I_  wanted to do that.  _I_  wanted to mourn him myself. I know, its selfish, but I wanted to feel like it was  _my_  place to worry,  _my_  job to take care of him. So I let Sylvia tell him. Today. Not yesterday. Christ...I gotta talk to him later. Just, don't ever get like that, Hank. Don't be jealous like that."

Hank nodded, stunned into silence. An ominous feeling cramped his stomach. Oscar seemed distant, as if unaware, or simply uncaring, of the fact that a complete stranger had been witness to his outburst.

"We'll find him," he eventually assured. "We'll make sure this doesn't happen again. We'll make him pay for this bullshit."

"Do," Miles growled. "Make him sorry, Hank."

"We gotta find the guy, first," Hank sighed.

Oscar looked up suddenly. "I might know where he's been," he said.

*

Connor now knew a lot about Wesley. He knew that his siblings, Todros and Talora, were twins. He knew that his favourite snack was an almond croissant. He knew that he was named after a movie character - Wesley from  _The Princess Bride,_  a handsome, romantic hero. He knew how Wesley's eyes lit up when he was talking about something he was passionate about, or how he kept having to move a piece of hair behind his ear when it wasn't tied up. Connor knew more about Wesley than he did about the case.

And now he sat, with an almond croissant before him and the synopsis for The Princess Bride pulled up from his databases, trying not to look at the slim, stubby man from across the room. The human had ended their conversation after he'd finished his tea, saying he had to take care of some things. He was now marching around the club, conferring with people and taking charge. In some ways it reminded Connor of himself - purpose driven information collection, informing oneself of the situation and taking action based upon it. Except Connor wasn't a leader, not really. His version of action was much more quiet. He investigated the case and did what we had to. He lead himself, and sometimes Hank, but he wasn't a leader. And that was something he was content with. He didn't want the responsibility of a leadership role. He enjoyed what he did and how he did it.

Wesley, on the other hand, reminded Connor of a director. He could imagine him on a film set, clipboard in hand, shouting commands and creating something incredible. Or like a parent, solving quarrels and organising his flock of children.  _I bet he'd be great with kids,_  Connor wondered innocently.

Connor realised he had been watching Wesley again. He realised because Wesley also noticed, meeting his eyes and winking. Connor gave him a sheepish smile and glared at his croissant.  _Concentrate on the croissant,_ he told himself.  _Concentrate on the croissant, concentrate on the croissant, concentra -_

The image of Wesley winking hurtled into his mind, sending a hot rush down his chest and abdomen.  _Touch sensitivity very much off!_  he demanded, vanquishing the feeling. But the image was still clear in his head. The oaky eyes and long lashes. The splattering of freckles. The acne scars around his forehead. The dark, painted lips.  _Humans sure are...interesting._

Connor didn't like where his mind was going. Or maybe he did, but he was nervous. Change was intimidating. And this was very new.

Connor concentrated on the croissant.

He hadn't eaten much in his life - he only recently got the necessary upgrade, and in the month since he had delicately declined Hank's offers of greasy junk food. To treat him, Hank had taken him to some sort of high end restaurant and let him order anything he'd wanted. To Hank's dismay, Connor had ordered a salad. It was good - the leafy green food had tasted fresh and bright, like how he expected rain to taste if it was a food. He gained a new love for cherry tomatoes, black olives and buffalo mozzarella, and was beginning to get excited about the prospect of a whole new world of flavours. But then he ventured into dressings, and the sharp burst of vinegar was so overwhelming he was too nervous to order dessert. Other than an attempt at homemade salad (which he was sad to admit was nowhere near as tasty as that at the restaurant), Connor hadn't consumed a mouthful. And now here he was; on offhand comment by a handsome stranger had led to him ordering a pastry. An almond croissant which he hoped was free of vinegar.

Crumbs were flaking off onto the plate and sliced almonds balanced on the top. White, powdery icing sugar was sprinkled like fairy dust. Connor tentatively plucked the croissant off the plate. It was firmer than he expected. He eyed it suspiciously. He had no frame of reference for what tasted "sweet". He had no clue what to expect.

"Its not poisoned." A smooth voice startled Connor out of the staring contest he had entered with the pastry. Wesley appeared by his side, smirking.  _Dammit._

"I know, I scanned it. Cyanide wasn't on the ingredients list, funnily enough."  _Not that cyanide would do much to me,_  he added silently.

Wesley laughed. It wasn't a polite, tinkling laugh like the tittering women who flirted with Hank at the office; nor was it deep and rumbling like Hank's himself. It was strong, yet light, matching the pitchiness of his accent. It was very human, and very sincere.

Spurred on by Wesley's presence and an alien desire to impress him, Connor raised the croissant to his mouth and bravely took a bite.

It was crispy and spiky, in a pleasant way. It crunched against his teeth, the sound reminding him of the cracking sound of soap suds when they get crushed. And the  _taste_. Wet almond sauce leaked into his mouth, sweet and tangy at the same time. It reminded him of the feeling he gets when he watched the sunrise from his window. Its the feeling of when Hank puts his arm around him, or when Kara sends him a new postcard, or when Markus comes to visit. Its the feeling Wesley's smile gives him, and the sound of his voice.

"Gosh, you seem to like that," Wesley chuckled, raising an eyebrow at Connor's expression. "You look like you just bit into solid gold."

"I feel like I did," Connor admitted. And he meant it. He chewed slowly, listening to Wesley.

"That was baked fresh this morning," be informed him. "Pretty impressive of these guys. In the midst of a crisis and still finding time to bake."

"Its good," Connor said after swallowing, not wanting to talk with his mouth full too much. "I can see why its your favourite."

Wesley shrugged. He seemed...less excitable than he did during their earlier conversation. Connor noticed how his eyes kept travelling out of the window, up at the sky, as if his mind was clouded.  The smile on his lips seemed strained, and faded at the corners of his mouth. Connor wasn't sure what to do. He could reconstruct situations, which was a useful feature for investigating crime scenes, but didn't quite work for social situations. Yes, adapting to human unpredictability was one of his features. But there was only so much his program could do. He barely knew Wesley, and was unsure how he would react to the various responses whirling around his mind. He had just about as good a chance at saying the wrong thing as any human. More, probably, judging by his lack of social experience.

_Questioning? Calm? Oblivious? Flirty? No no no, not that one, stop it._

He went for a combination.

"Tell me about yourself," he asked. Wesley blinked, confused.

"I already have," he said. "Probably more than I should have, to be honest."

That was true. Every answer he had given Connor had somehow managed to spiral into a ten minute tangent about his family or his friends. Although, Connor's follow up questions were rarely about the case. Wesley's anecdotes were interesting.

Wesley sighed and screwed up his face in thought. "My middle name is Arvio," he said eventually. "Its means 'wanderer'. I always thought it was because I was meant to end up homeless." he smiled. "Its dumb, but I kind of liked the idea of it. The freedom. Like backpacking. But I was a kid. I know better now than to romanticise being homeless," he shrugged. "But. Yeah. Make of that what you will."

Connor looked down at his plate and took another nibble of croissant.

"My name means 'lover of hounds'," he commented, his voice light.

"And are you?" Wesley smirked again; this time, Connor thought, a little bit more genuinely. Although maybe that was wishful thinking.

"Yes, I am. Very much so," Connor said with a grin. "I like dogs a lot. We have one. He's a Saint Bernard. He's called Sumo," he said in a rush. "He likes ear scratches and sausages."

"He sounds sweet," Wesley mused. He was silent for a second. Connor suddenly felt very self conscious.  _What did I tell him all that for?_  he scolded himself.  _He didn't need to know all that._  Feeling childish, he stuffed his mouth with more croissant. " _God_ , I miss sausages."

Connor raised his eyebrows questioningly, unable to ask verbally without spraying the man with crumbs. He had better manners than Hank.

"I mean, proper sausages. British sausages. Your crappy American ones don't compare, trust me."

Connor wasn't particularly patriotic; he, like many androids, couldn't care much  for their country. It was more of a human thing. There was sort of a disconnect between androids and pride for one's country. They had no real ethnicities to hold them down, and only recently had received citizenships. At least, that was the general state in the US. From what he knew through Kara's messages and what he saw on the TV, androids who had found refuge in Canada felt very positively towards their country - the Canadian government had been quick to provide protection for the androids, accepting deviant refugees and setting up safe shelters and programs to help them adjust. This coupled with kind actions and offers of help from the human public lead to a positive outlook that was barely shared by American androids. Despite this, there was still a part of Connor that felt like he should be offended by Wesley's comment.

"I haven't tried any," Connor said, then added defensively, "But I'm sure American sausages are good if you find the right ones."

"American sausages are good if you want a trashy hot dog without knowing what animal it came from," Wesley teased. "You can't beat a good old Lincolnshire sausage. Or a pork and apple! Trust me, mate, when its comes to phallic meat, us Brits got it down. Only Germany could beat us. With their fucking Bratwurst..."

Connor raised an eyebrow. It was Wesley's turn to look embarrassed.

"I'll keep that in mind if I ever cook you a meal." He commented, immediately regretting it. Wes wiggled his eyebrows.

"Aw, you'd cook for me? How romantic."

For the second time that day, Connor felt grateful that he couldn't blush. 

"I don't think I could ever eat an animal," he admitted, thinking about Sumo.

"No sausage for you, then." Wesley said. He had the audacity to follow it up with a wink.

_Fuck._

*

The house was a twenty minute taxi ride away from the bar, in an dilapidated suburb of Detroit.  Hank was familiar with the neighbourhood, as almost every officer of the DPD was. The crime rates in this area weren't exactly low.

This specific house was on the outskirts of the city, far from the hustling centre. Distant sirens and shouting could be heard, but other than that, it was eerily quiet. The house looked uninhabitable. Smashed window panes were boarded up with rotting wood and the door was swinging open. The chain link fence was broken in places where it had been torn down by something heavy.

Not for the last time, he wished Connor were here. He felt guilty for leaving him without even letting him know where he was going, but he figured that whatever conversation he was having with Wesley was helping him, work related or not. Worrying him wouldn't have helped.

"I dropped him off here a few weeks ago, after a really a bad fight between him and Oscar," Miles said with a shudder. "He was all shaky and jittery. Kept muttering about how he was gonna make him pay. Creeped me out big time."

"Why here?" Hank asked, eyeing the door.

"He said he had friends here who could help him. Mentioned something about...relieving himself. His words, not mine," he pulled a grossed out expression.

"Know much about his friends?"

"Nah. He doesn't talk about himself very much."

"Yeah." Hank drew a readying breath and paced through the metallic gateway. The patio was cracked and the grass yellow and overgrown. "Christ, looks like no one's been here for a while."

Miles shrugged, obviously unnerved. He played with a blade of grass in his hands absentmindedly. He didn't follow after Hank.

"I don't think he'll be here," He said, seeming like he was convincing himself rather than Hank. "But I just thought taking a look would be useful, ya know..."

The kid was quite clearly uncomfortable being here. Hank mentally commended his bravery as he began to take slow, cautious steps towards where Hank was standing.

"It is useful, kid," Hank assured. "Well done for thinking of it."

With a nod, they continued forward.

They moved carefully, as if approaching an aggressive dog with spit dripping from its jaws. Step by step, they made it to the doorway. That's when Miles grabbed Hank's sleeve with a gasp.

"What? What's up?"

Miles pointed gingerly towards the ground by their feet.

"You won't be able to see it," he murmured, his voice almost a whisper.

"See what?" Hank glared at the floor of the porch. "See what, Miles?"

"B - blue blood."

"Oh."  _Not good_. "Fuck. How much?"

"Only a little. I can't tell. Its old, I can barely see it." his voice was oddly calm, albeit creepily quiet. His eyes traveled across the floor as if following an invisible trail was leading into the house. Without warning, the android lurched forward, following. Hank stepped quickly after him.

"Oi, kid, we don't know if this place is safe -" He hissed. Miles ignored him, speed walking down the hallway, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. Then, he stopped. In the doorway of what Hank guessed was the living room. As his halt was abrupt, Hank stumbled into him and swore. Then he looked up towards what Miles was staring at. And swore again.

Crumpled on the carpet, in a pool of invisible blue blood that only Miles could see, lay an android. His eyes were glassy and dead. His skin was gone, exposing his naked plastic exterior. A small pile of clothes that Hank assumed belonged to the android were tossed carelessly on an armchair. Dents broke its white shell on its head and torso, revealing torn circuits and and wires.

Hank just stared. So did Miles. For a moment, they both just stood in the doorway, looking. Then Hank ran back through the doorway and into the front yard, keeled over in the yellow grass and emptied his stomach. His wretches echoed in his ears and his mouth tasted of bile and stale coffee, making him want to be sick all over again. His throat burned.

It wasn't like he hadn't seen android bodies before. Or human bodies, for that matter. But there was something so terrible about seeing that man, skinless and nude, exposed for whoever had done this to see. It felt private. Violating. Like he should be ashamed to have seen it. Disrespectful. And also, ironically, and maybe most horribly, it was dehumanising. No clothes, no skin, no scars, no blemishes, no hair, no features. No colour except from white and grey and that terrible, terrible blue. Nothing discernible from any other android's body. Like a doll, stripped and broken. He wretched again.

From inside the house, he heard Miles talking distantly to what he assumed was a phone. He sounded calm. Hank wondered how he must be feeling. Cause if this is how Hank, a human in a now relatively stable mental state, reacted to the scene, then surely the recently traumatised Miles must be infinitely worse.

Yet, he was calm. He was stable. He was relatively silent. He was steadying Hank now, offering him a bottle of water.

"Drink," he urged, his voice cold and void of emotion. "I've called the police."

Hank gulped the water gratefully, trying his hardest to keep it down.

Then he felt Miles tense.

And he looked up.

Before them, standing at the gateway, was a skinny and startled man. His mouth was an 'O' of surprise. Hank recognised him from the photos in his case file.

A beat of silence. Then Jack legged it, speeding around the corner, and before they knew it, Hank and Miles were chasing after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there everyone, what did you all think eh? This chapter is one of my favourites from what I've written so far, and I just hope that the themes and characters coming through ok! Oh well, this is just for fun and practice xx


	4. Jack In The Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a man comes back from the dead.

_Damn you, Connor Anderson_ , Wes thought as he sprinted through the doors of the Cyberlife ARC. He had lost track of time talking to the man. That fucking man. He had promised to himself that he'd be there when Oscar woke up - he had to be. And by the time he checked his phone that was obviously on silent because he's a genius, three missed calls from Marsha had alerted him that his bloody flirting might've cost him just that. Fortunately, as he was dashing for his car after a rushed farewell to Connor, Marsha texted him to say that the pump regulator replacement had gone fine, and they still had about 20 minutes before Oscar could be safely reactivated. Unfortunately, that was almost half an hour ago. Wes was so stressed, so angry with himself that he almost didn't care that he hadn't given Connor his number.

Almost.

He shoved thought of the detective out of his mind as he dodged an android pushing a trolley full of spare parts. The sight of the clean, pristine body parts lying on the tray as if normal made his stomach turn. But still, Wes pushed forward, scooting round corners and leaping over boxes like an action hero.  _An incredibly late action hero,_  he grumbled to himself. Fuck. What if he was too late. What if Oscar was awake right now, wondering where the fuck he is, needing Wes to help him and console him, and he just hadn't shown up on time?

402\. That was the room the receptionist had said he was in. He was on the right floor -  _378, 379, 380_  - but still too far. Flashes of blue leaking out of dents and fear in his friend's face forced into his brain.  _392, 393, 394_. His hair was coming loose. He didn't care. He let it whip his face and get caught in his gaping mouth as he gasped for air and vowed to exercise more often. _399, 400, 401..._ 402\. Fuck.

Wes stared at the number emblazoned on the door, a metallic grey that stood out from the sharp whiteness of everything in the ARC - the walls, the floor, the door. Which was still closed. Despite the rush to get there, Wes felt unable to turn the handle. Dread and guilt smothered him.

 _Fuck it,_ he thought.  _That's my boy in there._

He swung open the door.

*

Dust stained his crisp black trousers, but Connor had given up caring. His mind was preoccupied.

After Wesley had left so suddenly, of course Connor's first thoughts were of worry.  _Did I do something wrong? Bore him? Creep him out? What did I say?_  But then the rational thinking kicked in, and he tried to reassure himself that no, he was fine; Wesley just needed to check on his friend. None of his business. And why should he care, anyway? Its unlikely that they'll ever have to meet after this. The conversation was probably insignificant to Wesley, and will quickly become forgotten.

Something about that make his chest hurt.

So he had looked to Hank for comfort.  _Ah. That's right. He left._  Where to, Connor was unsure of. So he went to do what he did best; investigate. Retraced Hank's steps into the back yard. He scanned the cigarette butt on the ground and concluded it to be his. Saw what he theorised could be two sets of footprints that were left imprinted in the dust, but they were too faint to analyse. He'd called Hank, but received no reply. So now here he was. Crouching on the ground, in the dirt, next to a dumpster. Like a professional.

Months ago, this act, this pointless act, wouldn't have made sense to him. What would it do other than dirty his uniform and waste time?

But that was when Connor was someone else. Someone he didn't recognise. A machine designed to complete a task that he'd thrown himself off of buildings and risked his destruction to accomplish. And now, he was slumped on the floor, waving off flies and drawing pictures in the dust with his finger. Old Connor would have been confused, even disturbed by this. Its senseless. Its useless. Its human.

And Connor wasn't human. Not really.

He felt it, a lot of the time. He could activate his touch sensitivity and feel the cold shimmer of rain, and grit under his nails. He could activate his taste sensors and experience almond croissants and buffalo mozzarella. He could care for others - he loved Hank, he loved Kara and her family, and Markus and his partners. He could flirt. He could cry. He could feel,  _everything_. Every damn thing the world threw at him, he felt it. Surely, by the purest, realest standards, he was human.

Connor still didn't have an answer.  _But that's OK,_  he thought.  _Maybe I don't need one yet. I'm Connor Anderson, Deviant Protector. I'll take a holiday, and work it out after._

He formed a goldfish in the dust with his finger. He enjoyed the sensations running the tip of his finger through the dirt gave him. It was like powder, but less soft than icing sugar. Sometimes there were bigger chunks, like pebbles, never bigger than his finger nail. He used one to place in his drawing as the goldfish's eye. He kind of liked the idea of owning a fish. Maybe he'd ask Hank about it.

Connor dialed Hank again.

Dial tone.

He stood up and brushed the sand off of his suit, straightening his tie and running a hand through his synthetic hair. He still wanted to look  _presentable_. And this yard was anything but. Full of flies and trash - it was damaging his James Bond image. At least, that's what he joked to himself. He'd watched the movies with Hank, and Connor had secretly fancied himself a suave, confident agent of justice, handsome and sexy and daring.  _Little do they know,_ he chuckled to himself.  _The closest thing I have in common with James Bond are my cufflinks._

He had a few options now. Carry on standing here, wasting time, dialing Hank's number over and over. Go back inside and interview more people about Jack and try to find information, a possible lead, anything. Trace Hank's phone and find his current location.

Connor kicked the dust and scuffed his shoe. He liked the last option, simply because his head was swimming with an overload of information and feelings that he was desperate to out pour. Hank, however, couldn't stand it when Connor tracked him without permission or a reason that Hank deemed valid. Connor didn't quite agree with Hank's judgement of what was valid; once, he had tracked him whilst working on a case with a convicted killer, and saved his life as he had realised Hank was about to enter a den of literal murderers with a half loaded gun. Hank was pissed because  _"At least that would've been more interesting than Fowler's fuckin' braggin'!"_ He'd been perfectly happy, however, when Connor had tracked him to drag him to the Chicken Feed for lunch. Almost as  if Hank valued a chicken burger and large coke more than he did his own life.

Connor ached with the knowledge that, not too long ago, that had been true.

Dull yet persistent, a numb pulsing echoed through his chest. He still thought back to those days, probably more than he should. It was just terrifying to think about how close Hank got - how if Connor hadn't have helped, or not in time, maybe things wouldn't have worked out like they did. It unnerved him to think that those days for Hank were so recent...and that sometimes they still happened. And no matter how hard he tried, how much help he gave, how much love he had, there are some problems that even Connor can't solve.

 _Calm it,_  Connor urged himself as he sensed his systems getting overworked. This was happening too often. A warning label popped up before his eyes, blinding him in yellow, which did little to ease his nerves. He balanced himself against the wall, grounding him, as his bed did the night before . These...attacks? Were becoming more frequent. He knew what they were. Hank had them. They were described in his database. He just refused to accept that his android body, his metal mind, was capable of emulating these feelings. He didn't want them. He didn't want to feel like this every time he thought back to November.

Connor knew that when humans experience these, one thing they do is control their breathing. Connor couldn't do that. Instead, he forced himself to take manual control of his regulator, and slowed the pumping. He timed the seconds. He used the wall to support his weight, knees suddenly weak. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the thirium rushing through him. After a moment, he was alright. Almost.

_God, I really have to find better ways of dealing with this._

**Incoming call from Hank Anderson.**

_Thank God._

**Accept.**

_"Connor!"_  Hank was breathless. Connor heard footsteps, as if Hank was running.

"Lieutenant? What's going on?"

 _"I went with one of those Freeman guys - to this house where he reckoned Jack was gonna be -"_  He panted heavily.  _"Fuck, I gotta get to the gym - shit - yeah, well, we found him -"_

"You did?" Connor blinked, his own problems materialised away. "Fuck. What are you doing? Are you running? Hank, don't hurt yourself, you're kinda old -"

 _"I know, arsehole,"_  Hank swore. _"We - we're chasing him down - fuck, what's that? Miles?"_

Connor heard him call out. "Lieutenant?"

_"Aw, shit - no, no, no!"_

"Hank?! What happened?"

 _"He's getting into a fuckin car!"_  His footsteps slowed.  _"Miles, stop, you can't outrun a car -"_

Connor distantly heard another voice swear. "Lieutenant, what's the license plate?"

 _"R60 8O - O -"_  He paused.  _"Miles says its R60 8OP. No, Miles, stop -"_

"I'm gonna track it; maybe I can locate its destination, the number is probably attached to an address."

_"MILES, HE'S GONE, PUT YOUR SHIRT BACK ON -"_

Connor raised an eyebrow at his phone. "Uh...I'm going to hang up now, Lieutenant - I'll send you the address and meet you there -"

 _"Connor, hold on a second,"_ Hank's voice sounded suddenly weaker.  _"Please."_

"I - I'm here, Hank."

_"Back at the house...you can find the address, right? If you do the GPS thing?"_

"Affirmative. I can track where you've recently been -"

 _"Yeah. Well, do that,"_ his voice was gruff. _"And send a squad car. We found, uh,  something disturbing. I ca - won't...go into detail right now..."_

Connor paused. It had been a while since he'd heard that tone in his friend's voice. "OK, Hank. I'll take care of it." then, "I'll see you at the address. Bring a gun, if you can."

_"See you there, son."_

_*_

"Moth are people," argued Oscar through a mouth full of chocolate. "They deserve respect."

"They're gross." Wes rolled his eyes and glared at the insect on the hospital curtain.

"They are  _not_ ," their friend Paris chimed in, flicking her wheat-strand hair over her shoulder and giggling nervously. Wes understood - talking to a dead man made him feel like a trapdoor just swallowed up his stomach - but Oscar wasn't one for being pitied or patronised. He was going to ignore the problem for as long as possible, pretend its no big deal that their friend shot him dead just a day ago. Wes knew that wasn't healthy, but right now, he was just glad that Oscar was even alive to ignore the fact that he previously wasn't.

"Is no one gonna comment on the fact that this little dipshit," Paris' girlfriend, Marsha, raised a drawn on eyebrow and pointed her acrylic nail at Oscar. "Thinks that the plural of moths is 'moth'?"

"Moth are cool. Don't kill it," he told Wes, who begrudgingly stepped away from the creature. Oscar shrugged and said, "It won't come back like me."

A short silence hung in the air, just long enough to make Wes want to die from the awkwardness, until it was shattered by  a shrill, unconvincing laugh from Paris. Wes winced. If the girl still had her LED, it would have been yellower than her hair. Marsha sent Wes a concerned and knowing look, which he returned with a nod.

"Hey, P," she said. "Come for a walk with me. I wanna get something from the vending machines."

Paris' strained smile faltered for a second, but she nodded and gave a sweet goodbye to Oscar before rushing through the door as if she had been dying to leave from the start. Marsha followed after her, leaving the room silent other than Oscar's chewing.

"I'm sorry about her," Wes sighed. "She just doesn't know how to act. God,  _I_  don't know how to act. This is so damn weird."

"You got that right," Oscar flipped a chocolate button into his mouth and lay back into the pillow. "I'm not sure what I should be feeling right now."

"What  _are_  you feeling?"

"Not much," he admitted with another shrug. "I don't know if it just hasn't set in yet, but honestly, I'm kind of just...fine. I feel OK. I guess I just feel weird about not feeling weird." He looked up at Wes reproachfully. "Does that sound like bullshit?"

"Kinda." Wes sat down on the bed next to Oscar. "But...I also kinda get it."

"Which part?"

"The, uh...not feeling much part," he lent back onto the headboard and popped one of Oscar's chocolates into his mouth. "Its confusing, I get it."

Oscar tilted his head. "Sharing is caring, Wes. Tell me your woes."

"Oh, fuck off," Wes rolled his eyes and laughed. "they're not woes. It was forever ago." Oscar raised an annoyingly fake-innocent eyebrow and smirked, urging him to go on. "Alright, you nosy git. It was back when my dad died. Fun, I know." he stretched an arm over his friend's shoulders. "I didn't really have time to feel much. I had to look after my family. I just kind of ignored that he was gone, I guess," he sighed, shaking his head. "I never dealt with it. Which can lead to...issues, sometimes. You gotta...not do that."

"I'm not sure  _how_ ," Oscar's voice was quieter. "Can't I just eat chocolate and get drunk and celebrate the fact that I'm still here?" he was only half joking.

"Oh yeah, we're still doing that for sure," Wes said with a wink. "Just don't repress stuff, OK? Its alright to need to talk things through -"

"OK,  _dad_ ," Oscar stuck out his tongue and flicked a chocolate button at Wes' face. "What about you, though?"

Wes blinked. "Me? I'm fine, what do you -"

"Wes, you dick, shut up. I know you feel fucked up. You're doing the thing with your hair."

Wes quickly let go of the lock of hair he had been twisting around his finger and opened his mouth as if to protest, but sighed and admitted defeat.

"This is just...weird. This world we're living in," he muttered. "Where a man can be dead one day and come back again the next. A world where I could lose you over and over." Oscar bit his lip and leaned onto Wes' chest. "I don't know how to act, how to feel. Should I grieve? Celebrate? Act like its no big deal?" he sighed again and covered his face with his hand. "I'm sorry, Oscar. I'm really trying to be strong for you -"

"Well, stop that," Oscar pulled a face. "That's all you ever do. Its...OK to be weak sometimes. We need a leader who isn't afraid to show his emotions. Its OK."

Wes raised an eyebrow and smiled weakly. "You're a smart kid, you know."

Oscar grinned. "I know."

*

Hank wasn't there when Connor arrived. No one was. He had neglected to call for back up - dealing with Detective Reed was far from what he needed. The address connected to the license plate had brought him not far from the centre of Detroit. The neighbourhood was relatively innocent; not a crime hotspot, but also not without a somewhat seedy underbelly. Silent business men and women strode past, avoiding looking in Connor's direction as he stood on the pavement with his hands by his side, head turned up to stare at the third floor balcony of the grimy apartment block.

The sun, bright and gold, illuminated him as he stood in the light. It gave him a gentle dose of comfort that spurred him into making his way through the building entrance.

There was no music in the elevator - just the stench of piss and empty plastic bottles. Metallic clanging and clicking as the box rose him upwards rang out ominously. A couple shouting and swearing distantly made Connor frown.

 _Imagine choosing to be with someone forever,_  he thought,  _and talking to them like that._

The first thing Connor noticed when the elevator doors dinged open was a patch of faded thirium on the stained carpet.

He felt his pump beat faster, despite this not being an unusual sight for him to see. His line of work was practically dripping with thirium. He should be used to this by now.  _But every time I see it, it just haunts me more._

The second thing Connor noticed was a man he recognised from his infamous mugshot, quivering behind a figure at the end of the hallway.

A figure clad in black, dirty sweat clothes like Jack, with a blinking red LED. A figure that clasped a gun in its pale fingers. A figure that was pointing it directly at Connor.

A figure that looked exactly like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! This is a bit of a shorter chapter, and I really hope you enjoyed it. Writing this is super fun and I just hope I'm doing a good job! Let me know what you think. x


	5. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Connor and Hank need a hug.

Connor knew what he looked like. He had a mirror in his room, and often studied his reflection when he saw it. He had access to photos and designs of his model in his database. He'd even seen another Connor once or twice.

But only once before like this.

When his eyes fell upon the figure before him, all of the love and admiration he had spent months building up for his physical form were washed away by a wave of fear, bitterness, resentment. In the flick of a switch, he was back in the Cyberlife tower.

"Stay right where you are," he heard a voice identical to his own shout out. "One step forward, and I shoot."

No, not identical. To how his voice used to sound, perhaps - but he hadn't had to speak in that tone for a long time. The android's voice had none of Connor's lilt, the pitchiness, the carefulness with which he chooses his words. Its voice was calculating. Calmer than Connor's would be. No discernible fear or emotion were behind its words. This wasn't Connor talking. This was a machine.

Connor raised his hands, regretting his decision not to preemptively draw his gun in the elevator. He ignored the android's words, looking to Jack instead, who was cowering behind the other Connor.

"Come with me, Jack," he called out, his voice steady. "Nothing will happen to you if you come quietly."  _Compassionate? Knowing? Threatening?_ He pondered his choices.  _Realistic,_ his negotiator program urged. "If you don't, things might have to get messy."

"What the fuck would you know about messy?" Jack snapped. 

**Probability of success - 67%.**

"I've seen some unpleasant situations. I'd rather not add another one to the list," Connor warned.

**Probability of success - 73%**

"So have I!" Jack cried. "I just want it to fucking stop, OK? I want them to leave me the  _fuck alone_ -"

"Just tell it," Connor gritted his teeth, the pronoun poison on his tongue. "To put down the gun, and come with me. We don't need to make this harder than it has to be."

"I can't," Jack's voice was quiet, like a child being caught in the kitchen cupboard. "I'm not going to prison over a fucking android. I'm not."

**Probability of success - 52%**

_Warm? Ironic? Challenge? Blame._

"You committed a crime. You'll be held accountable for your actions whether you come with me or not." Connor dropped his hand to his sides and began to step forward. "Don't make it worse for yourself, Jack -"

"Don't come any closer!" The other Connor yelled, gesturing with the gun.

 _Was I like this?_ Connor's pump skipped a beat.  _Were my eyes that dead? My voice so flat?_

**Probability of success - 49%**

"I remember you," he heard his voice whisper. His voice, from his mouth, with Connor barely even meaning to say them. "I remember this. This was me, once -"

"Oh, shut up," snapped Jack. "W-with your - pretend emotions. I'm not buying it, we're not buying it, no one believes you -"

"I know what I am," Connor responded, harsher than he intended. His negotiation program was screaming at him to shut up and continue properly, careful.

_Screw careful._

"I know who I am. And what I feel." he met the other Connor's eyes.  _They're blue,_  he noticed. "What  _you_  feel."

"I don't feel anything," was the reply. "I was a machine designed to accomplish a task, and I -"

"-Never fail your missions." he stepped closer. This time, the other Connor didn't try and stop him. "I know. I've heard all this, I've said all this. We were programmed to say it. But we were never programmed to say this, what I'm telling you now. That's me talking. My soul, my heart." he saw the other android's eyes widen slightly. "You could talk like this too. We are so much more than machines. Its OK to feel this way. Its honestly... sort of beautiful."

"I..." there was a pause. Connor sensed a change within the man opposite him. The other Connor lowered his gun slightly and turned his face to the ground, eyes squeezed shut. Then, through gritted teeth - "I don't feel anything."

Just as Connor felt his pump sink in his chest, Jack lunged forward and tore the gun from the android's hand and shoved him away.

"Give it here, you good for nothing metal shit -" the android raised his head and fixed his stony glare on the wall opposite, tuning out.

**Probability of success - 29%**

"Listen to me, Jack," Connor warned. "I'm trying to help you."

"Bullshit!" Jack's voice cracked through the air. He wove the gun in Connor's face. He didn't so much as flinch. "You don't wanna  _help_  me -"

"Of course I fucking don't!" Connor swore. "I don't  _want_  to help you, but I'm still here, trying to, despite everything you've fucking done. You wanna know why?"

Jack only glared, unable to hide the fear in his eyes as Connor's voice raised even louder than his own.

"Because that's my job. I protect people. Even scumbags like you." Connor didn't take his eyes off of Jack. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, quieter, dripping in hate. "So come. The  _fuck_. With me."

A silence, angry with spit and and rage and a gun in a shaking hand, billowed through the air. The other Connor stared uselessly at the wall, expression blank. Jack winced and wiped the tears and saliva from his face with his grotty sleeve.

"Now I see why they called you Hunter," Jack hissed, slicing through the silence.

 _Hunter_. The word echoed in Connor's mind, tying his wires up in knots and invading him like a virus. He did his best to ignore it as Jack lowered his gun.

"Thank you -" Connor began, stepping forward to remove the weapon from Jack's dangerous hands. But Jack started to chuckle. His face was turned down, hiding his expression other than a smirk. A smirk that turned into a grin, toothy and cackling, spit flying from his lips. He raised his gun to the other Connor's temple.

"NO!"

_Bang._

*

"He's awake," Miles murmured, his eyelids drooping. He leaned his head back onto the top of the car seat, a dreamy smile pulling at his lips. Hank hadn't seen the man as relaxed or relieved as he seemed to be now in the few hours they had spent together.

Despite his soft tone, Miles' voice had startled Hank. The android had barely uttered a word since Jack had escaped them. He'd been more or less totally silent the whole taxi ride to the location Connor had texted them.

"Who?"

"Oscar," Miles smirked. His eyes were shut as if he was about to drift into a dream.

"Ah, yeah. That kid." Hank cleared his throat. "How do ya know?"

"Androids have our way of communicating," Miles shrugged. "I just do."

"Huh." Hank said gruffly, looking awkwardly out of the window and twiddling his thumbs. He rarely knew what to say in these situations. Since meeting Connor, he had opened up emotionally. He was now able to talk comfortably with him, comfort him, and somehow always manage to say the right thing. But with anyone other than his friend, it was still an unusual and difficult achievement.

"You'll like him," Miles commented, breaking the silence. Hank turned back to him, finding his eyes open and peering at him.

"I, uh...wasn't aware I was gonna meet him."

"Oscar will want to. He's nosy. And determined," his smile widened. His right hand absentmindedly stroked his cheek. "He'll find a way of meeting you."

"That ain't concerning at all," joked Hank, earning a chuckle from the android, who paused before replying.

"He says not to worry. He doesn't bite."

Hank smirked and nodded, uncertainty and mild excitement fizzing at his fingertips.

The sleek taxi doors slid open, pulling the pair back to reality. The car had stopped outside of an apartment block, stretched out towards the sky, resting in a pile of trash and vomit. Hank sniffed the air and reluctantly stepped out.

"Christ, that's the car," the battered vehicle was parked at an angle on the sidewalk. Miles appeared next to him, eyebrows furrowed. "You don't have to come in, ya know."

Miles shook his head, glaring at the door. "Yeah I do. I'll kick myself if I don't." With that he stepped forward, making his way determinedly into the building. Hank had to jog to keep up with him.

"The listed apartment is on the top floor," he informed the android. "That's probably where Connor went."

"So that's where that bastard should be," Miles growled, pressing the elevator button. Hank nodded and tried not to breathe. The stench of urine as the metal doors pinged open was overbearing. "God, I wanna kick his ass so fucking bad."

"Funny, you don't really seem like the aggressive type."

"I'm not," Miles shrugged and closed his eyes, the metallic clunking of the elevator distant. "But when someone you love is hurt, the mother fucker who did it suddenly doesn't seem worth the pity."

Hank didn't reply, simply mulling over the man's words. Something about them made a pang in his chest. A distant memory of blue and snow.

Of red blood on a hospital bed.

_Bang!_

"What the fuck?!"

"Was th-that a gunshot?" Miles whispered, trying to repress the wobble in his voice.

"Yeah - fuck," Hank stared desperately at the elevator doors, urging them to open faster. Miles' words of barely a minute before echoed in his head, burning, freezing, pained. He couldn't force the image of a crumpled, blue-bleeding body out of his head.

And then the doors pinged open once more, and he didn't have to imagine it.

Knees weak, he sprinted across the stained carpet, falling to his feet and clutching at the unfamiliar hoodie casing Connor's body. A cry formed in his throat. Fingers stroked the soft hair and shook like paper in the wind.

"Connor," he hissed, unable to do or say much more. He heard footsteps scrambling towards him - and a voice saying his name.

"Hank! Hank, I'm here, I'm OK -"

Hank recognised the voice.  _How?_

Arms encircled him, pulling at his shoulders, forcing him to look the owner in the face.

Connor.

"Connor?"

The face broke out into a watery smile, clean of blue blood, moving and alive. "Hank." It said.

Questions that swarmed his mind were left unanswered as Hank found himself lunging at his friend, his real, living friend. Hands found backs and necks. Tears fell onto jackets. The smell of their fabric softener, Connor's cologne and Chicken Feed wrappers assured Hank that what he was so desperately hoping for was real.

"I completed the mission," Connor murmured lightly into Hank's shoulder.

"Shut the fuck up." He pulled back, giving his friend another look. He staggered upwards and held out his hand for Connor to balance himself with.

"That was dramatic." Miles raised an eyebrow, appearing in the doorway of a flat which Hank assumed belonged to Jack. "The bastard's in here, can I kick him?"

"I handcuffed him to the radiator," Connor commented proudly.

"Good plan," Hank smirked. "No, Miles, you can't kick him."

"We'd have to arrest you," Connor said with a nonchalant shrug. Miles held out a hand.

"I'm Miles Freeman. I'd rather you didn't do that."

"The name's Anderson," Connor's voice was suddenly lower, and comically smooth. "Connor Anderson."

As Hank rolled his eyes with a fond scoff, Miles snorted and winked. "Yeah, I know you. Good ol' Deviant Hunter."

Hank noticed Connor's smile falter. He knew Miles was joking - but did Connor? The kid was barely capable of picking up social ques, and despite his consistent use of sarcastic quips, they could still easily confuse him. But it didn't  matter whether or not Connor understood Miles' joking tone - hearing the name was enough to change his whole demeanor. Miles seemed to notice the change in Connor as he swiftly turned round, straight faced, to crouch next to the android body lying on the floor.

"We might be able to reactivate him," he informed the others, voice steady, fingers hovering over the face that matched his own.

"I don't know, Connor; a shot in the head like that..."

"We can at least try, Hank." Hank couldn't see his friend's face. He didn't need to. The crack in his voice was enough. "When I was talking to him, before. He wasn't...isn't deviant yet. But he nearly is, I can feel it. I can help him. We should help him."

Miles and Hank exchanged a look. Miles shrugged. "There's a chance the bullet didn't hit any vital compartments - most of our computing systems are stored in the front of our heads, and that shot only goes through the back." he offered. Hank nodded.

"Yeah," he cleared his throat. "We can try, right?"

Connor peered up at his friend, a thankful smile on his face.

"Right."

 _"Fucking pussies!"_  came a gargled cry from the flat. Hank had to grab Miles by the back of his shirt to stop him from slamming through the doorway and sending his sneaker up Jack's ass.

"I've called for a squad car to pick us up," Connor told his partner. "And please lets make that paperwork fast. I wanna go home."

*

It felt good to stand in their living room again. To make coffee for Hank in their kitchen, to rest on his clean bed covers, to be among their things. He'd only been out a day, but that was enough for Connor. Every joint in his plastic felt stiff, but he didn't stop moving. He couldn't. If he wasn't busying himself with a dirty mug that had to be cleaned, clothes that had to be put away, a book shelf that had to be reordered, the image of his own still, blue stained face mashed into the carpet and Jack's laugh overwhelmed him. And he didn't want to be overwhelmed. He didn't like what happened when he was.

Pump, pump, pump, he told himself, steadying his pulse as he scrubbed at the dirty dishes. Rubbing the sponge in circles that matched the rhythm he was keeping to, he felt increasingly calm and grounded with every swipe of his hand. Each piece of dirt that was cleaned away to reveal the sparkling porcelain beneath settled him. The bubbles crackled as he dove his hands into the water, silky with soap, as hot as he could bear. The heat spread through his hands, along his arms, seeping into his body.

Hank was perched on the sofa, not sprawled across the cushions as he usually did. Perhaps his nerves were keeping him on edge, or maybe he felt too awkward to sit as he usually did in front of Miles. The android was stood in front of the mantel piece, peering up at the photos and souvenirs. Hank had invited him over - apparently someone from The Wildes was going to pick him up and take him to the club for some sort of party. Connor wasn't sure of the details. He hadn't really been listening.

"You look real cute here," he heard their guest say. He peeked through the doorway connecting the kitchen and the living room. Miles was holding a photo frame - a picture of Connor and Hank from last Christmas lay inside. It had been taken by Kara, who had been visiting for the holidays. Hank, Luther and Connor were squeezed onto the sofa, with Alice snuggled in Connor's lap, clutching the cuddly fish toy he had got her as a gift. He had been so content, so distracted by the tiny being in his arms, he hadn't even realised that the photo had been taken. It was one of his favourite photos. And now Miles was holding it.

And he wasn't sure why that made him uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry you had to see what you did earlier," he commented, a stern edge to his voice, as he wiped his hands on a tea towel and strode into the living room. "In the first house. I read about it on the case file. And then later, as well." Connor avoided Miles' eye contact and plucked the frame from his hands, placing it gently onto the mantel piece. "Seeing two android bodies in such a small space of time must have been...shocking."

Connor could feel Hank's glare prickling his neck. He knew he was being unfair, being cold, rude, dismissive. But did he stop? Should he?  _Yes, you should,_  he told himself angrily.  _Stop being an ass._

Miles shrugged calmly, somehow both alleviating and adding to the tension. "It was crazy," he said. "And upsetting, yeah. But I have my own, very much alive android to look forward to seeing."

Connor didn't reply at first. He couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't either upset Hank or upset Hank. He shoved his hands in his pockets and eyed the carpet.

"I'm hope that goes pleasantly," he murmured, turning to the doorway. "I need to go change."

"You can come if you want," he heard Miles' voice from over his shoulder. The android looked...concerned. His eyes were knowing, and still had the underlying sadness Connor had sensed in him when he first saw him only an hour before. But his body language, his eye contact, communicated openness. As if he was holding out a metaphorical hand for Connor to take. A peace offering. "You both can. Its a party, the more the merrier."

"Thanks for the offer, mate," Hank answered, pulling out the remote and flicking through the channels. "I need a night in, I think. And I should probably check with how that, uh, other RK800 is doing in the ARC."

Miles nodded with a polite smile, and looked up at the much taller Connor. "What about you, Connor?"

Connor could see Hank pretending not to pay attention from the corner of his eye. He lowered his eyes to meet Miles'. Despite Connor's cold treatment of the android, he was still smiling, still offering an invite. Which only made him feel guilty. Which only made him panic.

"I, uh...I'll have to think about it." And before Miles could reply, Connor was out of the living room, and staggering towards the bathroom at the end of their hallway. The door clicked shut behind him. He lent over the sink, clutching the sides, his hands almost as pale as the fake marble basin.

 _Pump, pump, pump_ , he chanted in his head. "Pump, pump, pump," it came out in a whisper.

Concentrating with all his might on his circulator, Connor lifted his head slightly, facing the reflection in the mirror before him.

And the panic only got worse.

 _What the fuck am I looking at?_ He begged himself for answers.  _Who even is that? My face, huh? My features, unique to me, huh?_  He scowled, and the reflection scowled back.  _There are hundreds of faces like this. Just like this. Hundreds of my nose, my eyes, my body. Running around without me._  Connor's reflection glared at him.  _One in a million, eh? Apparently not._

He ran his hand through his hair. His hand, of which there may be a thousand pairs. His hair, perfectly sculpted, uniform, generic. Regimented.

 _At least this I have control over,_ he thought to himself. _A change, maybe? A decision made by me and me alone? Maybe, blonde..._ the strands of synthetic hair billowed with a light, creamy colour - gold like the sun, like wheat.  _Oh my._ Connor flinched and stumbled backwards, not meaning to actually change the colour. _I barely recognise myself,_  he admitted.  _Gosh. I look...different. Maybe I'm the only blonde RK800 out there. Maybe no one else looks like I do right now._  He grinned at himself, ruffling the newly yellow hairs. _Is it my colour?_  he questioned. The natural looking shade seemed to compliment his eyes and brought out the pinkness of his synthetic skin. Something in his database told him he'd suit earth tones.

_But its not my real colour._

Connor's smile faded. _Androids don't have a real colour. This is all synthetic, designed, unnatural. There's no reason to preserve what's not really me. This is Cyberlife's version of me. I can change myself however I want. I can defy them all over again..._

Connor sighed and scrunched his eyes shut, leaning against the peeling wallpaper and sliding down into a slumped pile on the floor.  _But that doesn't mean I have to change..._ he argued with himself. _Maybe I'm fine how I am. Maybe I'd like to carry on looking like me, even if there are hundreds of others who do too. And underneath everything...all these pointless, external additions..._ Connor held out his hand, scrutinising the fleshy covering, and willing it to seep away, exposing himself, his real hand, the most real and Connor part of him. White, with a blue undertone. hard, stiff, plastic. No soft skin or pink fingernails. No bones - just joints with metal screws and wires. Connor pulled himself to his feet and dragged his shirt over his head, his skin slowly melting away all over. He watched as his face was transformed, the blonde disappearing like an illusion, the brown of his eyes standing out against his white complexion. His head was smooth and hairless. His torso was deftly designed, so smart, so functional, with his joints and biocompartments fitted together flawlessly.

This was proof of his identity as a machine. Evidence of his mechanical form, of his thirium, of his computing system. It was the least human part of him. It was the least recognisable. It was so  _android_ , so identical to every Cyberlife body in creation.

Yet, it was comforting. It felt the most like him.

Then the door creaked open.  _Shit!_ Connor span around, almost tripping over his own feet, and grabbed his shirt.

He was face to face with Wes.

Their eyes met, Connor's synthetic coating fading back not nearly quickly enough. Wes blinked and cleared his throat as Connor held up his shirt to his chest in a useless attempt of covering up.

"Crap," Wes croaked, keeping his gaze on the floor tiles. "Sorry, I didn't realise anyone was in here -"

"Wh-why are you in here?" Connor stammered, not meaning to sound as blunt as he did.

Wes blushed, a look of confusion on his face. He paused before answering. "I need to piss."

"No! I meant -" Connor sighed and squeezed his shirt in his hands, the awkwardness almost paining him. "I meant, here, as in. The house."

"Oh!" Wes replied, startled. "I'm p-picking up Miles, hank invited us in -"

_"Us?"_

"Yeah, Oscar's here with me," Wes said apologetically.

Connor groaned. _Maybe I can just stay in my room. I'll wait for them to leave there._

"Look, sorry, but uh...I really gotta.." Wes tried. Connor tilted his head, confused as to why the man was still there, still hovering, carrying on what had to be the weirdest encounter Hank's bathroom had seen. Wes sighed and gestured to the toilet with a wave of his hand.

"Oh yeah! Humans gotta - yeah. Sorry." Remind me not to talk to anyone ever again, he told himself as he stepped towards the doorway. Gosh. What a disaster.

"Its alright," Wes' voice was quiet. Connor couldn't tell if it was due to nerves, sadness, embarrassment, or any other strange feeling that he still wasn't familiar enough with to be able to identify. But as they passed each other in the doorway, as Connor accidentally brushed past the other man's sleeve, there was no mistaking the teasing tone to his voice.

"Nice hair. But I preferred the brown."

As Connor turned to face Wes and question him on the statement, the door shut, shielding him from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Hope you enjoyed this chapter, the next one is gonna be a bit lighter (hopefully). Let me know what you think down below! x


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